Author’s note: Readers of delicate sensibilities and refined social graces, who have obviously wandered here by mistake, should read forth only with courage intact and the understanding that there is no shame in turning away.

I was sitting in the office alone last night, typing away at the computer, when the fast food dinner kicked in, causing a wee bit of gastric activity. It was not of a degree that could be considered gastric distress in any way. My digestive tract simply required a little, shall we say, ventilation of accumulated pressure. Also, the released non-fuel gastric fumes were not, shall we say, of a quantity or a quality that suggested I needed to retire to another room for over-the-counter pharmaceutical attention nor for, shall we say, an expulsion of detrimental solid matter.

Right after I allowed, shall we say, the biological pressure-release valve to kick in, John walked into the office to, I assumed, work at his computer. Whilst this would place him on the side of the office space which is in the direction that my biological pressure-release valve faces, I was confident that given the relatively benign nature of the gastric fumes, the size of the space, the fact that he would be seated facing away from said valve and toward a separate fresh air intake portal (commonly called a doorway, FYI), we would encounter no problems.

He did not got to his desk to sit down.

In a, shall we say, quirk of fate, he approached me from behind, leaned over to place a kiss on the top of my head and gently hug me. He paused briefly to look at my screen, repeated the kiss and hug, then, as he turned to leave the room, said sweetly; “I forgive you.”

Yeah-wha–? “What?” I said, eloquently, as my mind broke from its work-related revery. “You forgive me?”

“Yeah, for farting on me.” Wha–I?

“No way,” I countered. “I farted before you even walked in here, so I guess I’ll have to forgive you for interrupting my private gastric moment.”

Men, acting like he’s never hiked his leg and, shall we say, let one rip while we’re confined in a car in the dead of winter when you don’t want to have to roll the windows down.

Of all the nerve at pam[at]viewfromthenorth40.com