Ode to a Heavy Nose Breather

I’d like to send a shout out to the nose-breather standing directly behind me at the crowded acoustic show last night.  I was too shy to look back, but I can only assume you were an overweight woman, or perhaps a woman with a cold or bad allergies. You breathed like you had just struggled up a few flights of stairs or were in the midst of an intensive Tae-Bo workout. Under normal circumstances, no average woman’s nose could do what your nose could.

The warmth of your nose air on my arm, the flecks of hardened boogs tickling my elbow while the gentleman on stage tickled the strings of his guitar. Dare I say it was romantic? Dare I venture we had a moment?

I wondered how many shards of your boogies had flittered into my beer, and hoped the answer was many with each sip.

More than once I closed my eyes and wished the music would stop, so I could hear your labored breath more clearly. A gentle wheeze mixed with a strong gust of air and the occasional sensual snort. Did you have a deviated septum, I wondered? You sounded like an angel with a horrible sinus infection.

Even over the music, I could hear a large snot-ball ping-ponging around your nostril. Back to front, left to right. I held my breath in hopes that magical and wonderful orb would escape, dance through the air and land softly on the back of my neck; your way of saying, “Hi, how are ya? My name is Darlene.”

I’d gently pinch the ball between my thumb and forefinger, roll it around a bit, maybe sniff it a little, and then place it in my breast pocket carefully, a souvenir greater than any overpriced t-shirt or button available at the merch stand. Alas, while that sphere of nasal mucus was large enough to be audible, it was too large to escape the warm hairy confines of your nose. It was the one that got away. We would never have our hello. I would never make love to you or your nose.

When I looked at my watch, to see how much longer I could bask in your nasal exhaust, the face was foggy from your powerful exhalations. As the fog cleared, and the musician put down his guitar, I realized our time together was up.

I hope next time I stand in a crowded room, enjoying an unplugged performance, you’re there behind me, breathing heavily, hugging me with your gasps, whispering age old secrets of love with what I can only assume was a very large nose.

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