Some things in life trigger an instant response.

A toddler, careening toward the edge of a coffee table. A Tesla, cutting you off as it rockets up the onramp.

Those moments make people react. Quickly.

Lurching forward to catch the rambunctious tyke before the inevitable toddler-table collision.

Or jabbing a middle finger at the windshield, hoping it’ll teach the Tesla some manners.

But some things, you let sit—

Wine sometimes gets better with age.

A few cheeses too, as long as you don’t ask too many questions.

Even grudges—give ‘em air and years, and they turn into treasured family traditions.

The smell of something rotting in a garage fridge though—that’s something else entirely.

Ignore that too long and it doesn’t mellow, it ripens.

It settles in and waits for you.

Opening the door, you’re met with the horror of it all—

A hastily wrapped foil package oozing out something. Maybe meatloaf, maybe cake.

Probably neither.

The warped plastic take-out container, sides puffed out, whispering, “I dare you.”

Even the obligatory box of Arm & Hammer looks like it’s—seen things.

And the smell doesn’t just hit you—it hangs on, looking for a fight, gripping your nostrils and overpowering all else.

Forgetting what you came for, you slam the door shut, gagging just a little.

You cross the garage, trying to escape the stench. Too late.

It’s in your shirt, in your soul.

Hitching a ride back into the house.

You tell yourself you’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Probably not though.

A shower and fresh shirt will do for now.

In life, some things improve if you leave them alone.

A garage fridge is not one of them.

OFF-KILTER

The Garage Fridge Smells Like Regret