If the shoe doesn't fit

take it off 'fore you get bunions

“I almost farted on you," he admits.

“Why would you do that?” I plead.

“But I didn’t though, so…” he grins all goofy and gestures his thumbprint to face the ceiling, as if I were to praise it for the unreleased gas bubble.

And I sure did lift my hands closer to that roof because I could’ve been typing with less oxygen in my lungs, instead of well supplied. I could’ve held my breath while counting to a number that feels sufficient enough to allow the stench to float elsewhere. But knowing me and my lung capacity, I’d probably undercount and inhale his decaying insides in a sharp gasp to fill the space I left unaired. A pat on the back comes before he makes like a tree, assuring only that I could’ve had a worse day without him in it. If you have a brother, you might’ve experienced a similar dynamic.