Nigel Butterworth had always considered himself a man of dignity. Not excessive dignity, mind you—he was not above eating supermarket sushi or wearing socks with holes—but enough to avoid public disgrace.

Which made his current predicament all the more harrowing.

His first date with Melanie Cooper was in precisely fourteen minutes. Melanie, a woman of astonishing beauty and—if her dating profile was to be believed—a passion for “long walks, poetry, and authenticity.” Nigel had no particular feelings about poetry, but he was determined to be authentic.

Unfortunately, authenticity was the last thing he wanted to display right now, given the monstrous case of wind gurgling inside him like an angry washing machine.

The culprit was an ill-advised pre-date snack. In a moment of misguided bravado, Nigel had devoured a packet of “Colonel Krakowski’s Extra Fermented Spicy Sauerkraut Bites,” an impulse purchase from the Polish aisle at Tesco. Within minutes, his intestines had become a battlefield.

Yet, he could hardly cancel. He had already been ghosted by three women this year, one of whom had simply changed her name and moved to a different city after their first coffee. No, tonight, he had to persevere.

Melanie was waiting outside the restaurant, glowing in the street-lights. “Nigel! Lovely to meet you!”

He forced a smile, muscles clenched. “You too, Melanie.”

Inside, the candlelit Italian bistro was both charming and perilous. The intimate seating meant that any unexpected emissions would be trapped like a biological weapon under the low ceiling.

The waiter arrived. “Drinks?”

Nigel, sweating, ordered sparkling water, then realised the carbonation might turn him into a human foghorn. Too late.

Melanie smiled warmly. “So, tell me something surprising about you.”

The pressure in his gut mounted. He could feel the sauerkraut organising a revolt. “Er… I—” A gurgle erupted from the depths of his torso. A noise so grotesque that even the waiter, mid-breadstick distribution, faltered.

Melanie’s eyes widened. “Are you… okay?”

“Fine! Absolutely fine!” Nigel gasped, shifting in his seat. A tactical error. A small, malevolent gust slipped out, silent but weaponised. The air grew thick.

Melanie frowned. “Did you—?”

“No!” Nigel yelped too quickly.

She sniffed, then recoiled. “Oh my God.”

Across the room, diners were stirring, their faces twisting in alarm. A man near the window gagged into his napkin.

Nigel’s only hope was denial. “It might be… the cheese?”

Melanie stood abruptly. “I’m so sorry, Nigel, but I have a very sensitive nose.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Nigel sighed, relieved and devastated in equal measure. Then he relaxed his muscles entirely.

The maître d’ fainted on the spot.