Free Living Single by Holly Chamberlin Page A

“Sorry,” he whispered as the others glared at me. “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    “You didn’t,” I whispered back. “It’s just something I say when someone pokes me in the ear.”
    “You were falling asleep.”
    “I know. It’s more bearable that way.”
    “Next time I’ll leave you alone.”
    The discussion droned on around me for another half hour. At the end, I declined Jim’s blanket invitation for the group to head for Casablanca. Something told me I wasn’t wanted. Maybe the continued glares of the self-important others. My attempt at distraction had been a disaster.
    “I’m glad you came tonight, Erin,” Jim said as we clunked down the stairs to the lobby.
    “I’m not so sure I am,” I said, then added quickly, “I mean, it was good to see you, though.”
    Jim laughed. “Nice save. Hey, would you like to see a movie with me sometime?”
    The question caught me off-guard. I’d never thought of Jim in any romantic sense. He was smart and funny and kind of good-looking in that bland, boy-next-door way, but he’d never made my blood race. Still, I was on a quest for a Doug-free life so I accepted. Jim said he’d call me the next day to make plans and true to his word, he did.
    I had no great hopes for our date but knowing what I did of Jim—admittedly, not much—I felt fairly confident it wouldn’t be a horrible experience.
    Note to Self: “Don’t ever, ever assume anything. Ever.”
    I met Jim at the nineteen-theater Loews cineplex on Tremont. He gave me a peck on the cheek. I didn’t protest. He paid for my ticket. I didn’t protest. He asked if I wanted popcorn and I said yes. He bought that, too, and got himself a soda and a box of candy.
    Jim looked nice. He wore a pair of nicely faded jeans, a simple navy pull-over sweater, and an L.L. Bean jacket. Not a fashion plate, but acceptable.
    We headed for theater twelve and settled in. The previews provoked some amusing comments from Jim. The popcorn was yummy. Things were going just fine. The lights went down. It was time for the main attraction.
    And then it began. No, Jim Keeley didn’t grope me. He didn’t take out his dick and ask me to touch it. No. Jim Keeley did something far, far more offensive.
    He farted. Not once, not twice. Many, many times. He did not apologize. He did not acknowledge the farts. And they were smelly farts, too.
    What does one do in such a situation? In my wildest nightmares I’d never imagined a scene like this. After the initial shock and disbelief, I thought, Oh God, the poor guy has a serious irritable bowel problem. Then I thought, So, why the hell doesn’t he take something for it! Then I thought, Does he think this is funny?
    I glanced at Jim. He was looking straight ahead, absorbed in the action on the screen. Around us whispers were rising. Some expressed disgust. Others, amusement. Those latter voices belonged, of course, to the teenage boys in the audience.
    After the tenth or eleventh explosion of noise and smell, I was beyond angry. I was scared. Jim Keeley was a lunatic.
    Carefully, I took my bag from the seat on my left and mumbled something about getting a soda. Jim grunted, still absorbed in the movie. Loath to give the people behind us yet another reason to rebel, I hunched over and practically crawled to the end of the aisle. God, I thought, I hope no one thinks I’m the farter!
    I dashed out of the darkened theater and into the corridor. Fresh air was in order.
    “Young lady!”
    Somehow, I knew the words were for my benefit.
    I turned back. A very dignified older woman had followed me from the theater. She did not look happy.
    “It wasn’t me!” I cried.
    “Your husband’s behavior is despicable,” she said. “I am lodging a complaint with the management.”
    “He’s not my husband! I hardly know him!”
    Great. Someone finally assumes I’m married and it’s to a public farter.
    The older woman glared. “Then I advise you to choose your gentlemen friends more wisely