If you are an ex-girlfriend of mine, and I've never told you that you farted, then yes, the following is about you. Sorry about that.

Yup, she farted. Not all the time, only at one time of the day: right as soon as she fell asleep. I'd always know she had gone to sleep because of the tiny poot that came from her side of the bed. The second her lights went out, out came the fart. It was like a little secret between me and her butt: "The girl's asleep, you can go play PlayStation now."

I never told her about it. It never seemed like the right time, and I know it would have really embarrassed her. Even when we were dragging skeletons out of the closet and pulling up every bit of dirt we had on each other, I'd keep my mouth shut about the farts.

Oh, they weren't those loud, grinding, obnoxious farts that guys make. They were small and barely audible. Kind of like the sound a kitty makes when it sneezes.

Poot.

There's one night that sticks in my mind the most. We were fighting about something pretty dumb, probably about an old subject, but most likely something petty and stupid. Either way, we had pulled out the fuck yous.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck you."

"I'm going to sleep!"

"So am I!"

"Well, stay on your side of the bed."

"You stay on yours."

"Fine."

"Fine!"

Twenty minutes pass.

Poot.

"Hee hee."

"Wha? What? Why did you wake me up?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Kiss. Hug. Nose rub. Then she'd duck her head and crawl up inside my arms. Her left arm would always be bent funny and I'd ask her if she minded, it didn't look comfortable at all. But she'd say no, it didn't bother her – then she'd whisper something about how when we're like this she feels like I'm protecting her.

"Goodnight, my love."

"Goodnight."

Twenty minutes pass.

Poot.

What have you done for love?