There she was, minding her own business. Sitting in a corner of the train she thought was safe from “inviting” any other passenger near her due to the seat’s awkward and uncomfortable placement right next to the sliding doors. But oh no, lo and behold, at the last second, a man of a certain age pried the doors open (such strength for a silver-haired, bespectacled male!) and homed in on the empty seat next to her. Why her? Vivienne couldn’t imagine. It’s not as though she exuded anything akin to a “beguiling” aura. But then, some people, particularly men, get off on that—knowing that they’re bothering a woman who clearly doesn’t want to be near him. Or perhaps this man was so old, therefore “out of it,” that he really didn’t pick up on her “fuck off, don’t come near me” vibes at all.

Whatever the case, the instant he sat down, she could smell it. That distinctive smell of “old man.” There’s no one word that can be used to crystallize what that odor is, but when one gets a whiff of it, it’s unmistakable (and yes, there is a distinction between “old man” versus “old lady” smell—the former is much more unbearable). So even if one “appears” younger than they are, their eau de vieillard always serves as a, er, dead giveaway (no “sort of” pun intended). And this man was positively reeking of eau de vieillard. To the point where Vivienne had to do everything in her power to restrain herself from covering her nose in some fashion—whether with her sleeve or by even more blatantly “plugging it” with her thumb and index finger pinched together over the nostrils. But she didn’t. “Social grace” forbade her from indulging in such “puerile” behavior. Even though, half the time, she was convinced that she was, emotionally speaking, about the age of a ten-year-old. Shouldn’t that give her some license to act like “a bitch”—or whatever?

But no, it didn’t. Especially not as a “lay-day.” Expectations—standards—were higher for female comportment than they were for that of the male variety. Sure, if she were some garden-variety “grubby boy,” she could act however she wanted. She could probably elbow him or “manspread” him right off the seat and he would take the hint to move. Be too afraid of such a young “hooligan” to bother with trying to fight back in order to maintain his seat. A seat that was, really, among the worst-situated on the train. In fact, that was precisely why Vivienne had selected it—so as to ensure no one would sit near her. Least of all someone so foul-smelling.

In the past, this tactic had always worked so well for her, too. She couldn’t understand why on Earth this person gravitated toward the empty seat next to her. She only hoped it had nothing to do with being “attracted” to her. Even though Vivienne was well-aware that old men being attracted to younger women meant absolutely nothing on the flattery front as they were attracted to just about anyone at least fifteen years their junior no matter what they looked like. She could have had a harelip for all he cared, so long as the body still looked “supple.” Oof, just thinking this thought—that word—made her shudder with disgust and inch slightly away from the old man. Not that there was much space to “inch” anywhere but right out the window. And maybe she would have if it were actually functional and could be opened.

Instead, she was “vacuum-sealed” inside next to this stench-of-death emitter. While, sure, some part of her felt slightly guilty for judging a person so harshly for something that was so out of their control—something they couldn’t really change—she also couldn’t help being repulsed all the same. And also utterly fearful that, one day, the same “eau” would befall her own body, albeit “old lady”-style. That, perhaps many decades from now, she might find herself sitting yet again in this very seat, the positions reversed. Her in the place of the old man sitting next to a young boy who might even feel “at ease” enough with his liberties in a post-convicted felon-misogynist-rapist-authoritarian president climate to just go ahead and stab her for her own offending smell. Just because he felt like it—because it “grossed him out.” To even have to be “subjected” to such an old lady when all women were expected to be perennially hot and young. It was possible. Stranger things had happened. And already did.

Amidst her attempts at empathy/walking in another (old) man’s shoes, Vivienne didn’t notice that the train had just stopped where she needed to disembark, and that she was now going to be riding another approximately twenty minutes with this incorrigible stench. She couldn’t believe she had allowed herself to miss her stop—what kind of masochist was she? Was she subconsciously trying to linger next to this horrific odor longer than she “needed” to. Did she really think so little of herself? Or was it some underlying symptom of women believing they still “owed” it to the patriarchy to be polite? Not even merely polite, but actually “grateful” to be stifled by it (in this case, very literally).

All she knew for certain, at this juncture, was that she couldn’t possibly bear another second drinking in this miasma—or rather, having it shoved down her throat (who knew what sort of toxins she was actually breathing in?). Vivienne had to get up—in short, to stand up…for her right not to suffocate on what amounted to Death’s farts. So she did. All at once, she popped up and lurched forward like a bat out of hell (if bats out of hell lurched forward). Vivienne couldn’t believe it had taken her this long—this much near goddamn asphyxiation—to do what needed to be done: leave the old man and his eau de vieillard in the dust.

The irony she should have expected, of course, was that he didn’t even seem to notice that there was no longer a “presence” next to him. In fact, in the time it had taken her to decide to flee from the offending odeur, he had dozed off completely (mercifully, that dozing didn’t entail his head falling on her shoulder at any point). She should have just gotten up the second her olfactory senses were assaulted. But the indoctrination within her to be “courteous” was too strong—practically impossible to overwrite.

As she at last got off the train, however, she happened to glance back at the old man, who, in turn, was staring right back at her. Not asleep at all…and probably never was. She shivered slightly as he winked at her and proceeded to rub his groin without fear that anyone else might be looking. This sent Vivienne scurrying out the doors with no further delay. Before she could control what was happening, she found herself vomiting on the platform. A combination of the man’s eau de vieillard and his general foulness unrelated to sense of smell.