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He kisses my cheek.
Definitely not enough.
Before I can melt into a contented puddle at his feet, he takes out his phone and asks, “Want to take a selfie?”
The request is so odd it cools my libido. “Why?”
He leans in and whispers, “We should be leaving a digital trail of our ‘relationship’ on social media.”
Wow. I didn’t realize there would be a public component to the upcoming charade.
I back up a step. “I’m going to be on your Instagram?”
“And I on yours,” he says.
Sure. That’s totally the same thing. I have a lucky thirteen followers: seven sisters, Mom, Dad, and two sets of grandparents. He has thousands of drooling female (and quite a few male) fans commenting on every post he makes.
He frowns. “If you’re not ready—”
“It’s fine.” I bravely cozy up to him. “Take the selfie.”
He wraps his arm around my shoulders, overclocking my poor libido once more.
“Say seer,” Art says.
As in, psychic? I say the word, and the selfie is done.
“What do you think?” He shows me the screen.
He’s very photogenic and I’m not, which increases both my conviction that he’s out of my league and my fear that the immigration officers will find the whole thing suspicious. Still, since so much money is on the line, I say that it’s cute.
He posts the image. “Let’s go swelter.”
* * *
We step inside, and before I can even look around, the foulest odor hits my nostrils, like a stinky wrecking ball.
Fucking hell. This is what a lobotomy must feel like.
Did I forget my nose filters?
I feel my nostrils. Nope. Present. This must be the diluted version of whatever the stench is.
My eyes water and I breathe through my mouth—which makes me taste the stink nuke.
What is that? If a smell could be a horror movie, this one would be it. A film that tells the sad tale of a man with halitosis who becomes a fish-zombie—a special kind of walking undead that has to eat fish brains instead of human ones. For many decades, this zombie eats only fish brains and never brushes his rotting teeth, until one day he falls into a ditch filled with beer and fish excre—
“What’s wrong?” Art looks at me with a worry proportional to the stench.
I can’t answer. I’m worried that if I try, I might throw up on my pseudo-fiancé.
Without my conscious decision, my feet take me out of the banya.
Whew. Even here, outside, I can smell an echo of whatever that was.
I run across the road, spot the boardwalk in the distance, and beeline for that. Ocean air is the panacea I need. Reaching the boardwalk, I catch my breath, which is when Art catches up with me.
“What happened?” he asks, scanning me like I might be bleeding out of some orifices. And hey, if smells could make noses bleed, mine would be gushing right now.
