Garlic breath
“Kiss me,” she said.
He wasn’t sure. He could smell the garlic from here, and it wasn’t pretty.
“I have an idea,” he said, leaning away. “How about we whip up some mint milkshakes?” It was a good idea, but she wasn’t biting.
“I’m fuuuuuull,” she pouted. The garlic rolled by him as she whined the word, an invisible tsunami that hit him with nearly physical force. It was all he could do to keep himself upright.
“I can’t,” he murmured. “I just can’t.”
“What?”
“I SAID I CAN’T,” he cried out desperately. “I’m sorry! You’re just too garlicky!”
Her warm, cozy expression shattered. “What?”
“I’m so sorry! I can’t be in this room with you any more!”
He ran like the hounds of hell were after him, burst out the door, stumbled down the stairs, and zoomed away in his car.
She leaned back in the couch, nonplussed. She never got a reaction like that from a man. Garlic odor? What an odd way for his fears to manifest.
She grabbed her phone and sent a group text to her coven.
Sorry gals. He was a sensitive, sensed something wrong and ran. I’ll get us a fresh one tomorrow night, I promise.
Sarah D. Silvey 