Eating and smelly farts at the table
This chicken is amazing, Laura said, shamelessly sucking her fingers.
Mmm, yes, Sara added, her mouth full, barely able to speak.
I was laughing because the scene was so authentic, so friendly: three happy women, their hair tousled by the wind, sharing food and smoke on the terrace of the house.
Suddenly, as Sara tore a piece of the wing with her teeth, we heard an unexpected noise: prrrrt.
The three seconds of silence that followed were glorious.
"Who was it?" I asked, raising my eyebrow.
Laura put her hand to her mouth, trying to contain her laughter, but she was already a dead giveaway.
"Oh no, no," Natasha shouted, getting up from her chair and waving her hand. "That smells awful!" Laura let out another prrrrt-prrrrt.
I screamed again, doubling over with laughter.
The terrace descended into chaos: Natasha trying to escape the table, me crying from laughing so much, and Sara, between nervous giggles and fits of laughter, releasing fart after fart as if she were a broken machine gun.
"I can't take it anymore," Natasha said, although she eventually returned to the table because the smell wasn't going to ruin that delicious chicken.
And there we were: the three of us devouring the chicken, laughing, and at the same time enduring that invisible cloud that invaded everything. Every time Laura let out another, Sara made a fuss, I covered my nose, and a minute later we were all laughing again.
