We are sitting by the fireplace and talking about all and sundry. It is quite late. The fire is starting to sputter. At some point I fart. It is a single shot: pop. A short while later I fart twice in a row. Two more single shots once again: pop, pop. And then she starts laughing. “It reminds me of the war,” she says, “when popping sounds exactly like these would occasionally puncture the dense silence.” As her memories start welling up, she becomes ever more agitated. She starts talking about her friends from the university. About studying for her exams by candlelight. About her parents and her brother, who were in grave danger for months. Her voice quickens. She becomes louder. By and by, she starts telling me about many things I have not heard yet in spite of the ten years we have been together. “Hey,” I interrupt her at last, “it is time to stop talking about the war if we want to go to sleep soon!” She gives me a long look. “Remember,” she bursts out at last, “it was you who started the whole thing with those farts!” We both laugh and hug each other with feeling.