“Would you like some more cheese?” she asked, swiping a piece from the sterling tray the butler brought.

“Thank you, no. I’m still burping up that last bit of blue.”

That morsel of rudeness slipped out, but she didn’t notice. She was too wrapped up in her sensual indulgence. Looking up at the bright chandelier, she closed her eyes, puckered her lips, brought the cheese under her nostrils and took two short sniffs, one with each nostril. Then she deposited the cheese into the mouth.

“Don’t you just love Lindburgher,” she said, between a series of sumptuous chews.

“I prefer the head cheese.”

“Oh do you? Well, why don’t you come over to my town house and have some with me? I have some, you know. We can go over the grant proposals there.”

She got all twitchy and sweetsy.

“Cheeses are a passion of mine,” she said. “I just adore a pungent cheese.”

“Do you eat curds?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said. “All the time.”

“I’ve got two, you know.”

I don’t know why I was egging her on like this. I shouldn’t have said that.

“We have so much in common,” she continued. “We really must get together and sample each other’s cheeses. I’m sure we could get something churning.”

“I’m sure too.”

“Then you bring your curds. I’ll supply the whey, and away we’ll go. Ah-ha-ha-ha!”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

The gross pig. The old bag of weathered cabbages. I’d rather breath the hot breath of a wart-hog and whisper sweet nothings into its wooly ear. Something had to be done. I needed some excuse. But what? My tongue was all fumbly and I couldn’t think of anything. She just stood there with her penciled eyebrows lifted, waiting for a reply.

I still couldn’t think of anything so, for the first time in my life I asked God for help and all of a sudden I had to fart. Considering what I’d had for lunch, to include the weiner-shnitzle, apple strudel, liverwurst, stout; knopwurst, bratwurst, kutchen, kraut; and a couple of loaded, full-bean burritos, hardly New-Age food, it was going to be a doosey.

I wanted to make sure she caught the full drift so, taking a pen from my pocket on the pretext of getting her address, I dropped it behind my back, excused myself, turned around, bent to pick it up and let her rip. It was beautiful. It made a long, low hiss as it passed. And it smelt like sulpherous, rotten egg gas.

I straightened up and turned around, careful not to show any emotion. The smell hung in a thick fog like a swamp gas and Madame Pate stood in the middle of it, mouth agape, speechless. She looked like a cross between a cadaver and a blow-fish with hypertension. I acted like nothing happened and started talking.

“Thirty-thirty, Beau Rivage, did you say?”

The Madame licked her lips. It was obvious she was getting nervous and wanted out so I thought I’d add a final touch. I scratched at my pants and pulled at my underarms. Her mouth fluttered and made a sucking motion. She was really getting nervous. By now my nerve was up and even though I knew I had her, I thought what the heck, and I scratched my butt then sniffed my fingers.

That’s when she broke. Later that evening, after contemplating the day’s events, I became convinced of the possibility of living in a state of olfactory indifference, oblivious to the horror with which I was surrounded.