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NOXIOUS & OBNOXIOUS

I t’s quiet in Matty’s apartment, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space. For once, Matty isn’t playing YouTube videos or movies at top volume.

Timmy and I are sitting on the mattress in the bedroom, googling what movie to watch next.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door—sharp and deliberate, echoing through the room like a subtle warning.

Matty’s footsteps thud from the living room to the bedroom, where he glances in at Timmy, a silent exchange passing between them, quick and intentional. Without saying much, Timmy rises from the mattress and gives me a quick, almost absent, smile. “We’ll be back in a few, babe,” he says, as if to downplay the sudden shift in energy. “Just gotta meet someone real quick. Be right back.”

“Wha—.” I go to ask who it is, but it’s too late. Timmy and Matty have both left the room and slipped out the front door, headed out into the night.

I hear faint murmurs through the door—a muffled conversation happening just out of earshot. And then all goes silent, leaving me alone with my thoughts. My curiosity sharpens as the minutes stretch on. I fidget with my phone, checking it every couple of minutes. After what feels like an eternity, but must have been no more than twenty to thirty minutes, I hear the door click open. They’re loud and joking, their laughter echoing around the apartment. I feel relieved they’re back, but uneasy about what took place. Why didn’t they want me to go with them? Why didn’t they want me to meet their friend?

“Hey babe,” he grins nonchalantly.

“What was that about?” I ask, my brow furrowed.

He glances at me, his expression unreadable, an awkward mix of casualness laced with something heavier. “Just an acquaintance,” he says vaguely, rubbing the back of his neck, his eye contact almost too direct, as if he’s trying to avoid a tell-tale flicker that could catch him in a lie. “We were just saying hey.”

The pit in my stomach deepens. “Why didn’t you want me to meet them?” I ask.

Timmy exhales, as if trying to find the right words, but at the same time not giving away too much. “Look, it’s not that I didn’t want you to meet them. It’s just…,” his tone is careful, measured. “He’s not a good person,” he shrugs, the gesture coming out forced. “Someone you don’t need to get involved with. I was being protective of you.”

My unease sharpens. “What were you guys doing out there?”

He shifts uncomfortably, running his fingers through his hair. “Nothing much,” he says. “Like I said, he was just saying hey.”

His nonchalance feels so forced, like a curtain hastily drawn over something ugly. I want to just believe him and let it go, but the whole situation feels so strange, and instead my nagging unease remains, heavy and persistent.

I sit back, trying to process the minimal information Timmy has given me. It’s like a little door has cracked open to a side of him I’ve never seen before.

I want to trust him, but his lack of transparency gnaws away at me, leaving me suspended in the strange limbo between wanting to push for answers, fearing what those answers might reveal, and fearing how he might react if I continue to push.

The baby shark balloon incident is still fresh in my mind, and I definitely don’t want a repeat, even though he assured me it would never happen again.

The night goes on, but the weight of his earlier absence lingers between us, thick and unsettling. And as Timmy settles down onto the mattress beside me, draping an arm around my shoulders, I can’t help but wonder what—or who —I’m really sitting next to.

Later in the evening

The noxious farts begin.

At first, it’s one. And he apologizes. “I’m so sorry. My stomach is a bit messed up.”

But then they just keep coming.

They’re noisy and they stink like the worst stench I’ve ever experienced. How a human can produce the smell is unfathomable.

“I’m sorry!” he says. “You make me nervous and it gives me an upset tummy! I only do this around you!”

“Why do I make you nervous?”

“I don’t know. You tell me what to do, and you get mad at me. And my ass responds.”

“Well, that’s weird, but okay,” I say. He does have a tendency to blame things on me, I’ve noticed. Now I guess bodily functions can be added to the list.

I don’t think it has anything at all to do with the secretive visitor. And maybe I do make him nervous. I think he can tell I’m getting a little suspicious of his antics, his excuses. If I were him, I’d be a nervous, too.

Over the next few days, the flatulence continues and seemingly starts to bring him joy.

The apologies stop, and his reaction becomes laughter. Not like a lighthearted ‘oops’ type laughter, but something approaching a gleeful cackle with an edge to it.

He’s quickly figured out that it irritates me, and that seems to make him want to do it more .

I have to leave the room more than once, and a couple of times it makes me actually retch so hard I vomit.

In the entire six years I was with my ex, I don’t recall hearing—or smelling—him do it once.

Maybe Timmy’s sharting out his personality. Hopefully all the bad parts, so he can be the sweet, nice guy I’m in love with on a more consistent basis.

But for now, he’s beginning to stink in all the ways.