Air Dry

Air Dry

Earlier that night, I made him dinner.

Nothing fancy. Just enough effort to suggest I was feminine, domestic, and far too optimistic.

He ate like seasoning had personally changed his life.

Then he leaned back, put one hand on his stomach, and burped.

Not a small burp.

Not a polite little accident.

A grown-man, chest-open, disrespectful-ass burp.

I looked at him like, Sir, did something just die in you?

He smiled and said, “What? That’s intimacy.”

I said, “That is not intimacy. That is a warning.”

Because as a woman, I thought intimacy was supposed to be soft. Eye contact. A hand on your waist. Maybe somebody remembering your favorite snack.

Not a man letting a demon escape after pasta.

But I let it go.

That was stupid.

Later, we had sex, which is always a dangerous time to believe you are still mysterious.

Your hair is wrong. Your breathing is dramatic. Your dignity is somewhere on the floor with your underwear.

Trying to be casual, I got up and walked to my master bathroom like I was still that girl.

I left the door open.

That was also stupid.

I sat down to pee, still transitioning from “sexy woman” to “bitch with a bladder,” when my body betrayed me.

A toot.

Not a cute one.

Not a delicate little lady puff.

A real one.

The kind that makes God look away.

The bathroom went silent.

The bedroom went silent.

My soul left my body.

I came back carrying shame.

Then the same man who had tried to sell me a burp as intimacy said, with way too much confidence,

“Why do women fart when they pee?”

I said, “I don’t know.”

He said, “To air dry.”

And I had to sit there, half-naked and humbled, trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or tell him to get the hell out of my apartment.

I laughed.

Unfortunately.

Because the joke was stupid.

And worse than that,

it was funny.