I am alone with the smell of freshly cooked onions. And it doesn’t seem that I am alone as a result. In fact, their aroma almost assaults my senses as it invades my every breathing space. It is difficult to find a balance in the breathable air space as the non-onion air is stifled. An escape to the bedroom yields no relief. Door open, door closed, the onion seeps through and penetrates my very private chamber. It slaps me on the face and clings to my very skin. I am enveloped by its thick coat – assaulted and affronted all at once.
I summon up the courage to open the locked window, sealed for the winter. It is my only solution – my only escape. I throw off the covers of my bed which seem to have wilted under the oppressive smell and expose the freshly washed sheets. Bam! They are hit with onion hammer! No longer can they claim their innocence – they have been violated. They almost wilt under the weight of the air. I struggle against the onion’s ferocious claws as I manipulate the lever to “open” and crank the window. It cracks against the crisp, clean air that is kissed by snow – which rushes in to the room in a head-on assault. A bevvy of clean and pungent merge in my room and dance from corner to corner. Till death do they part – together, yet, separate. The odd, end result clings to my sweater. They beg me to declare a victor. Onion? No! I will not~
I take in a long, deep breath in synchronization with the gentle inward flow of the white curtain, in anticipation of lighter air. It has fooled me – the onion has not left the building. This battle is far from over. And the dance begins again. The snow outside seems to understand the battle stakes have been raised. The flakes come down harder in a seeming attempt to chop the onion down in its own space. There is a clash of the Titans. There is a dance of the Mighty Giants. There is a war waging in my room. I wait patiently and expectantly – knowing the victor must be the snow cleansed air. Yet – it is so long in coming. Curtain in – breath in. Curtain in – breath in. Wait, wait, wait.
The snow stops – the curtain falls silent. Onion creeps up the stairs and slithers under the door again. It slops up the bed and greases the blanket. I shrivel under the smell. “Argh!” It’s got me! Onion vs Stacey and Onion wins! I have no hope… all seems desperate!
Wait! The front door opens. I hear footsteps. Someone has come home to save me! Yes. They are walking up the stairs – closer, closer… A knock on the door. “Yes?” I venture to communicate through the stifling, sick air.
He opens the door. The smell of the onion makes an immediate full-on retreat. It cowers – it wilts – it concedes that it no longer holds the upper hand for there, in the doorway stands a brilliant red bag of…. MOVIE THEATRE POPCORN. Game over.