A very unpleasant story with 1 fart in it

After the third bite it was clear to me that things were going to rumble in my intestines. But it had to be the very spicy red curry.

I love red curry. The shit is: red curry doesn’t like me.

That means: when the curry hits my intestines, it rarely goes well. In 9 out of 10 cases the story ends in a sweat on the toilet.

This was also the case recently when we visited a restaurant with Sandro’s parents. Anyone who has been a guest in my life for a long time knows: Mrs. Fischer, Sandro’s mother, and I are not a perfect match, to say the least.

She doesn’t love me, I don’t love her. It’s entirely possible that she doesn’t necessarily like Sandro’s friends because they argue about her boy. But maybe that’s just a very unwarranted and mean assumption on my part. Which I don’t believe. But that’s fine, right.

Anyway, we’re sitting at this round table. Me between Sandro and Mrs. Fischer. Mr. Fischer opposite me. The round is intense. The conversations are bumpy. It is clearly noticeable that everyone is angry to be here. But good luck with the second one, anyway.

So soul food. So Curry. Red, sharp.

So sweat, nausea, rumbling.

Less than two minutes after the main course I say goodbye. I want to freshen up quickly, I say. You know it from movies.

I run around the next corner, praying I get to the bowl in time. I am aware that there is a lot of material that wants to come out. And that it becomes fluid and loud and wild.

The toilet is good. Just a separate hut and a Brünneli. I hope the next person who wants to come in has enough sensitivity to wait outside and not at Brünneli.

Spoiler: she didn’t.

Anyway, I sit down and then the explosion starts. The first round is bad. The second even worse.

So as I sit there and sweat and moan and fart and, the best way to put it, deliver, I hear the door open.

I’m sure it’s about to come out, I think, trying to hold back whatever is coming out of my intestines.

But the candidate makes no move to leave the toilet. I think about saying something, but I can’t. The curry is stronger.

Another round knocks it all out of me. Air, material, sweat.

The candidate stays inside. She will look me in the face and know so much more about me than I realize.

Stay calm, Ems, I tell myself. You will never see them again. And: She also poops. Blah blah.

It’ll be a while before I feel like I’m at a point where I can leave the bathroom and get back to the table. All you have to do is blot the sweat, touch up your lips and you’re done.

But nothing is good. Pure. Nothing.

The person standing in front of my very leaky toilet door is of course Mrs. Fischer. She stares at me in horror before a square inch of space is made for me on the Brünneli.

I wash my hands and say nothing. Mrs. Fischer doesn’t say anything either. I don’t look in the mirror either. I want to solve. In the air. Rubble. Ash. I don’t care what.

Now the turning point.

“Are you all right?”ask her. “No”I say. “Do you understand that I am thinking of leaving Sandro so that I never have to meet you again?”

“Yes”says Mrs. Fischer.

Be silent. Silence. Shyness.

Then she starts laughing. And here it comes, take me in his arms.

She tells me how, when she traveled through Australia with Mr. Fischer more than forty years ago, she had to kneel before him in the bush and let out her massive diarrhea. She talks and talks and I laugh and we have the best moment since we met.

I say that I am very happy that despite the story they conceived Sandro. Perhaps it was this sentence that melted her iron mother-in-law’s heart. She squeezes me a little tighter.

Maybe this is the beginning of a new love story. Or it’s the story of a short, weak moment.

About betrayal.