Chanel No. 2

Someone made this room smell terrible.

It might have been the baby, the husband, or the cat, but it definitely wasn’t me. And yet I, the only sure innocent, am also the only victim.

Everyone else is sleeping. Some part of their brains must be conscious of this olfactory assault, but, rightly or wrongly, it has been deemed less than life-threatening. So they snooze on, as this rich, full-bodied aroma settles heavily around us like a dewy morning fog. This biotic perfume. This intestinal memory. It’s layered and complex, with a deep, loamy base, sharp, sparkling top notes, and an unsettling tendril of sweetness running through the middle. For a few minutes, it’s all I can smell–or hear, or see, for that matter. A fart so vivid that gives you mild synesthesia. A fart unto itself. A fart for the ages.

Just to be safe, I’m blaming Jeffrey.

 

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