The Here and Now

We are sitting in the high ceiling-ed, velvet lined, marble edged, lobby of our hotel.
The cozy high back chairs around us hold the stuffier of the “stiff-upper-lipper’s”

We stand out like sore thumbs.
Our ratty blue jeans, bright or black tanks, and the fact that we are half the mean age or the rest of the room makes us something of an eye sore.

My sister is less than quiet.
She raises her glass:
“You guys remember when we left the theatre, right after mom bought the CD, when we were pushing through the crowd?”

Allow me to digress,
As we left the theatre, right after mom bought the CD, when we were pushing through the crowd, we smelled a smell.
A stink that permeated the air.
That caused contorted faces in the elbow-room-only mass of people.
We all held our breath, cursed the dealer of the dealt, and scampered quickly through.

We spent the next few minuets guessing which of our fellow theatre-goers left a little piece of themselves behind.

Back to the lobby.
Kim with her glass in the air.
“You guys remember when we left the theatre, right after mom bought the CD, when we were pushing through the crowd?
It took me till now to figure out that that was me.”


She begged me not to reveal what I have just written.
She pleaded with me repeatedly, fearing the ridicule, scared that her co-workers and friends might know something about her bodily functions.

I thought for a moment. I considered my options.
Fingers hovering above the delete key.
Then I remember the number of times I spilled stories of my fateful flatulence for the entertainment and enjoyment of my little sibling.
This time it’s her turn.