The first time it happened, I admit it wasn’t deliberate. It was one of those days when I had eaten something like fava beans for lunch, and the gas was just mounting in my intestines for hours while I pushed it back in at work.
I was sitting on the train on my way home that evening and my little sphincter ani externus was like the engine that just couldn’t anymore, and a mighty fart gave way.
I was mortified, naturally. I mean, I’m not the daintiest of gals. Not even close. But I try not to do things like burp and fart in public.
I quickly learned, though, that my gaseous excretions were muted by the insanely high decibel that is the MTA subway car merrily screeching along three stories underground. No one heard my fart.
Not 10 seconds after my flatulence escaped me, though, a line of noxious odor that can only be described in subway terms as more-gross-than-unbathed-homeless-person and less-gross-than-actual-feces, and crept along to the unassuming nostrils of the privileged man half sitting in my seat.
Faster than the speed of fart, this man sniffled ever so slightly and then shifted over in his seat, removing the part of his thighs and butt that had been crossing the line into my territory.
It was a miracle.