Ume

When I told my family I’d be moving houses, my aunt Ume was the first to insist I stay with her. She lived alone in a cozy two-story place on the quiet edge of town, and I figured it’d just be a simple arrangement—me crashing in her spare room until my new place was ready.

What I didn’t expect was to be greeted at the door by my 32-year-old aunt herself, smiling like she’d just won the lottery. She was dressed—or half dressed—in a lacy white bra under an open cardigan, and a pair of ripped jeans clinging loosely to her hips.

But before I could even process the sight, I was hit by something else—her smell. A sour, musky stench rolled over me like a physical wall, strong enough to make my eyes water. It was the kind of odor that only came from someone who hadn’t showered for days… maybe even weeks.

“Welcome, welcome!” she chirped, throwing her arms around me without hesitation. Her long black hair brushed against my face, and with it came another wave of the unbearable scent. My lungs screamed for mercy, but Ume only clung to me tighter, as if afraid I’d vanish if she let go.

“You don’t know how happy I am you’re staying here,” she said, still beaming, completely oblivious to the biological warfare she was waging on my nose.