Fresh Air

One morning I awoke to a terrible smell as you slept beside me.

"Did that come from you?" I asked you as I stirred you awake.

You groaned, "No. You are just gross."

"It wasn't me!" I would reply emphatically as I pulled up our covers to look for the dog.

The business end of our canine companion greeted us.

"Must be from Otis." I would then say. "I would have claimed that one proudly."

Otis was our Boston terrier that had a known history of flatulence and bowel irritation. I didn't have the foresight that blaming this poor dog many times for my own emissions would someday backfire. You didn't believe me as I had cried wolf once too often.

"That dog would have exploded before releasing that," you told me and I smiled at the thought of you almost making a fart joke. You were always so serious about such matters.

My inner 8-year-old was now grinning broadly; trying hard not to burst out laughing. It was too early for you to let me show emotion. Otis would poke his head out from under the covers with a look upon his face of, "Someone say my name?"

I finally broke out laughing in a show of gleeful exuberance. You would hit me, pull the covers around you tightly, and go back to sleep, un-amused and disgusted. Sometimes, I miss being married for the little moments such as this.