The task was to write a scene with a deus ex machina ending--an utterly preposterous event that miraculously saves the day for the main character.
Sophie rolled closer and kissed me again.
‘Can’t believe I found you,’ she said, smiling.
We held each other for a while, watching the afternoon shimmer at the window like a slow beautiful film. Most days, I’m tense - all knotted round my neck and shoulders - but as we lay there talking, all my cares evaporated.
And that’s when I farted.
It was barely audible, like a bush baby clearing its throat, but the moment it crept from my crack, I felt its damp warmth ooze up my back, sucking goosebumps from my flesh and threatening to be a real stinker.
I edged backwards onto my hip, trying to work the amorphous shibboleth of its impending nasal assault back under the duvet, but Sophie took my impromptu spasms as a come-on and nuzzled her nose into my ear.
‘You smell real sexy,’ she whispered. ‘Come on. Let’s fuck.’
My eyelids flared like a pair of Hendrix’s pants.
Outside the window, a small cartoon buzzard hovered in the air looking serious. It wore a trim blue uniform with a slender aqualung affair strapped to its back, both emblazoned with a gold motif reading Fart Patrol. It gave me the thumbs up with the tip of its wing and began feeding a length of plastic hosepipe through the window and operating numerous levers on the aqualung.
Sophie straddled me playfully. She was hot stuff - but the localized suction stripping the hairs from my thighs was something else.
‘What was that?’
‘Static,’ I said, relieved. ‘C’mere.’
She bent down low to suck on my cock. Over her shoulder I saw the buzzard signal two hundred on a flash card as it dropped an invoice onto the carpet. Then it flew off, clutching its cell phone.