I procure air freshener for his office. He didn’t enjoy the acrid smells permeating his nostrils every time he entered. I consented and ordered him a battery-operated spray freshener. Days later I stood, demonstrating the device to him. I placed the spray can inside the apparatus and aligned the setting to reflect one spray every twenty minutes. He, seated, insisted looking at it before I situated it on a side table across the room. I passed it to him and he held it in front of his face, observing the white plastic. As I warned him, “I don’t know when it’s going to spray, so I probably wouldn’t hold it so...” the spray emitted from the canister directly into his face. His eyes fluttered, his mouth sputtered, his paunch wavered. Laughter ruptured my body and I dashed from the room, his astonished-shocked-pained reaction mentally repeating. Upon my return to my desk, I discovered the air freshener accompanied by a note: “Please get another air freshener. One that doesn’t spray.”
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