It lingers in the air, heavy and unyielding, feeling my nostrils fill with that pungent aroma, and as it’s a stew it’s going to be sat on the stove boiling away and releasing it’s fetor throughout the house, the scent sticking to my clothes and reminding me of not only being in isolation but not having a way to run from the stench permeating the entire house.
A watched pot never boils, but this grotched pot forever
embroils us to suffocate in its odoriferous fumes.
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