I think my husband is trying to poison me slowly. With his rancid, putrid, farts.
He always falls asleep at night before I do. I stay up watching TV, or catch up on Facebook, or recently, to write my blogs.
Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night giggling. “What’s so funny?” Then I smell it. That foul, foul stench. Off comes the covers, but the more I fan it, the more the smell moves around and over the bed, with the ceiling fan circulating the smell all around me.
Is it because of the dinners I cook him? Or the healthy salads he has for lunch at work? Whatever it is, surely the food couldn’t have decomposed so quickly? Even week old raw chicken sitting in the bin under the summer heat doesn’t smell as bad.
When I hear “brrrrrp”, I get angry. But when I hear the ever-so-silent “pfffffffffffffft”, I go absolutely ballistic. Panic mode. I start screaming. My arms and legs are thrashing around, trying to lift and fan the covers… “Where’s the effin’ biohazard mask?”
My husband, he’s trying to kill me. One fart at a time.