I left you at the movies in the middle of our very first date and I thought you should know why: I had shit my pants.
I don't know what I ate that did such a number on my digestive system but I wasn't going to let it keep me from spending time with you. I was convinced it was just gas and held it in check as long as I could. When you got up to use the restroom I wasted no time venting the pressure cooker in by bowels. That's when I realized to my horror that what I mistook for simple gas was indeed a foul jet of blackest putrescence. It smelled like roadkill and sulfur, and it was sticking hotly to the inside of my pants.
Grabbing my sweater I tied it around my waste like a woman caught in the middle of a mistimed period and walked briskly towards the exit, just as you were coming back in. I mumbled something about having to use the rest room as well as I passed you, knowing full well I was already lying to you. Yet another thing I regret.
By the time I made it back to my place you had texted me 10 times; initially with cute faux concerns when you believe I was still in the rest room, then sincere worry and finally disappointment. I had no idea how to respond so I did what I do best, which was nothing.