“I can’t take it anymore!” the wife yells, but the man, her husband, is dancing and whistling. “It’s the biggest fart I’ve ever let out!” he says and laughs at the wife who’s rushing to open the bedroom window.
The fart sticks between them, but the husband doesn’t have the heart to chase it away. He shoves it inside a deflated birthday balloon. “There, happy now?” he says to his wife the next morning after a sex-less night. She throws him a disgusted look, slams the door behind her.
He gobbles his stack of buttered pancakes and sunny-side-up eggs, pushes more farts inside the fart balloon. “It’s just you and me now,” he says, petting the balloon who replies with shhhh which the man finds soothing. He kisses the balloon, caresses it like a well-trained wild thing, calls it his “air-biscuit.”
The fart balloon grows so large it takes up the bathroom, the bedroom, driving his wife to move to the guestroom where she locks herself in, threatening divorce if he doesn’t see a doctor for his monstrous flatulence. The fart blob continues to squeeze into the living room, overtakes the kitchen, pushes off the laptop from the desk, crashes the chair in his home office.
To return onsite to work, he sails on his balloon in smoky skies, a blimp in crimson red like his wife’s colored lips, hovering above infinite lines of unmoving cars. When he arrives at work, he unties the balloon’s mouth, inhale the balmy air, lights up a match.
In a whoosh, the world disappears.
