Whoever Closed The Door, Would They Please Open A Window?

Dear heaven above, that smell, what is that smell? Oh my, that's bad. It's her, or rather something wafting out of her. It must be coming from her; I am the only other person in the room, and the door is closed. Look at her; she sits behind her desk, crushing that tiny, desperate, overworked chair with her mass, pretending nothing is rotting inside of her, that nothing is trying to work its way out of her before it dies inside her bowels. She is teasing it, setting it free in little gasps, making it believe that soon it will be out, clouding up the room and poisoning the air around her like an airborne infection.

Oh, that one was bad, are my eyes actually watering? Can I breathe through my mouth? Will it taste like it smells? Would it be better to taste it than to smell it? Should these be my last thoughts? Shouldn't I be thinking of family and friends? Whatever I am thinking, I don't want to pass into the next phase of forever with this smell in my face. Will my last living act be to suck her warm cloud of stink into my nose, filling my lungs with invisible death?

It's so hot in here, why the hell has she got the heat on? How can she be cold with that inside of her? She is like a walking methane gas pocket, and I am without my canary in a cage. Would it hurt to open a window? I imagine I can see the air outside taunting me, but that may be a hallucination, a side effect of breathing in too deeply.

Oh no, she's on the move. She is going to walk right past me. I want to hold my breath, but I can't suck in a chest full of air and hold it, that would give some of it time to settle inside of my lungs, and I might become a carrier. No, it's best to take short, shallow breaths and hope my immune system can fight off the raging hoards of infection that surely cling to the air molecules in this room.

The door is opening, at last a savior! Oh no, that look, I know that look; they think I did this! Come on! Do I really look capable of bringing about such a smell? Ok, scratch that, I probably do, but that is stereotyping, and aren't we as a society past all that? Should I make a face, wave my hand past my nose, wrinkle it up in disgust? Would that make me look more guilty? Too late, there is no doubt in her eyes, the window for quietly passing blame is closed. Speaking of windows, my kingdom for an open one! My silent accuser grabs what she came in for and leaves, eager, I am sure, to escape my wrath. Soon I am alone with my tormentor once again.

Time crawls. Hours in misery pass. The afternoon is spent at last, and my work is done. Double-checks completed. Everything is running smooth, my tasks are finished. I can leave this room for cleaner pastures of air. I say my goodbyes, reach for the doorknob, and pull open the door. Cool air rushes over my skin; I breath it in, smile, and walk into the hallway. I close the door, leaving her behind with her sins. I am free at last.

On the way out, I think about her job title and laugh out loud.

ASSessor.