We sat. The Styrofoam cooler was there with Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys. It was like drinking canned tap water. I stretched my legs and a fly buzzed between us.
“Ugh, a fly,” she said, waving it away. “I hate the smell of flies.”
“The smell of flies?”
“Yeah.”
“Flies don’t smell.”
“Hell if they don’t. I can smell them.”
“What do they smell like?”
“Cinnamon and feces.”
“I guess I’ll have to pay closer attention.”
“You bet you will, buster!”
“When I was a kid a fly flew up my nose. And I didn’t notice any smells then.”
“Are you disputing me? Mr. Contrarian?”
“No, not at all. I’ll take your word for it.”
“How did you get a fly up your nose?”
“I was on my bike going really fast down a hill and the fly was in front of me. I hit it and it got sucked into my nostril. I had fairly large nostrils as a child.”
“And you didn’t smell anything?”
“Not a thing.”
“What happened to the fly?”
“I blew it back out and it went on its merry way.”
“And you smelled nothing?”
“Nothing. It was a blank experience.”
“You’re weird. I’d get my olfactories checked out if I were you. Something’s definitely missing.”
I cracked open another Pabst. “Something’s missing all right.”
Crumbling Asphalt 