Gases

The phone rang it’s tiny electronic chirp faint, like an automated bird stuck in the drawer of her desk. Marie swiveled in the leather office chair without making a sound. Fine furniture was worth the money, the well fitting, well oiled swivel slid so effortlessly.

In spite of the muted phone and the silent chair, pain slammed into her right temple. This was the third day of the migraine, and she had come to work after two days lying at home in the darkened room, with cold packs on her head and drugs in her system. But she had a deadline, and no headache would excuse her this time. Three of her close friends had already been laid off, and she was next in line.

“Hello?” she kept her voice soft, closing her eyes.

“Hi Marie, it’s Ross. Just checking to see if you were in today, I’ll be right down."

His voice caused more pain in her head, not in her ass, which was where she usually felt the pain of Ross. She pictured his shiny perspiring nose, the little particles of spit which flew out of his mouth when he talked (or lectured, which was his usual mode of communication), his eyes gazing just over your right shoulder, index finger always waving around as he spoke.

Dropping her chin toward the desk and propping her forehead in her hands, she pressed hard on the migraine spot, always just above her right eyebrow. Whenever she heard PBS programs about ancient skulls discovered with strange holes drilled in them, she just knew those ancient folks had suffered from migraines. It truly felt as if drilling a hole and relieving the pressure that was pounding, like a prison inmate frustrated with his incarceration rhythmically using his fist against the metal wall, was the only way she might get some relief.

Just as there was a quick knock, followed immediately by the door opening, she felt her gut knot up in a serious gas pain. “Ladies don’t pass gas in public” her mother’s words echoed in her head. This wasn’t really fair, men allowed to fart, to laugh, to joke and draw attention to the bodily function, but ladies were supposed to clench, squeeze, and excuse themselves to another room? This was her office, she hadn’t invited Ross in, really didn’t want him here at all.

She pushed the chair back hard against the wall, to hide the sound of the fart that she had to let slip out, fearful that if she didn’t give that part of her body some relief, she would truly explode. Looking up at Ross, as he lurched across the room toward her, she didn’t see any sign that he had heard.

He launched into a tirade of the latest project details. She saw his sweaty nose begin to twitch a little, and his eyes darted from side to side, as if looking directly at her might reveal where the terrible odor was coming from. She grabbed the yellow notepad and pen from the right side of her desk, and focused her attention and her eyes on the pad, a serious show of note taking was called for in this situation. When Ross finally, or even more quickly than usual, finished his list of instructions, he turned and left in somewhat of a hurry.

As soon as the door clicked shut, she swiveled around and opened the window behind her. The air outside was not exactly fresh, her office window overlooked a busy freeway, but even the rising carbon monoxide fumes were better than the intestinal distress odor that filled her office.