(to P.A.L.)

Something has been weighing on my conscience lately. I'm not one to confess things online, but, well, this is something that I just can't bring myself to confess to you in person. I suppose that I could e-mail you a confession or even confess to you on the phone, but actually, I want witnesses for this. This is an untruth that I have been bearing for far too long.

I want you to think back to the winter of 1996. We went to some concert at the Amazing Grace together. I don't recall who was playing. Maybe it was an open-mic night or maybe some folk act. It doesn't matter. What matters is that we were sitting at a table near the wall when unbeknownst to you, I let the most horrendous fart ever known to humankind.

I say "unbeknownst" because you didn't know that it was me who did it. Now I'm thinking that it wasn't a folk act, because no acoustic guitar could have ever drowned out that sound. What I remember clearly is this: the valve of my colon opening as far as it would go, and then just staying that way for what seemed like a full minute as rancid air rushed from my body and curled through the cafe. At first, no one ... not even you ... had any idea what was going on. But I was in shock. Please remember that. I was surprised and mortified by just the feeling of it. And now when I look back, I think that was why I pretended that it wasn't me who let it.

I remember your face wrinkling as my intestinal gas reached your nostrils. You looked at me as if to say, "Eww." And then suddenly, when the full force of it hit you, your face exploded in horror. I pulled my shirt over my nose and mouth and buried my face in my hands. You tried to use your jacket as a filter. As I looked around, pretending to try and figure out who did it (as if I didn't know!) I noticed that everyone in the vicinity was doing the same.

Wisely, we got up and moved away from the epicenter, and headed to the other side of the room. It wasn't much better over there. We stood and watched the show for awhile until we got bored and decided to leave. Once outside, we didn't speak about it. I suppose I never knew whether or not you suspected me, but I truly believed that you thought it was someone else. I let you keep believing that, as I said, because I was awestruck by the power and intensity of my own stench, the likes of which I have never smelled since.

You know me very well. Well enough to know that I am not the kind of person who either brags about, or refuses to own up to, a colossal fart. And yet here I am, with my thumb firmly pressed against my forehead, half ashamed, half proud, undeniably asserting: "It was me, baby."

P.S. I had eggplant parmesan for dinner that night. That's probably what did it.