Something Smells Fishy....

In a random celebration, a celebration of the end of summer, a healthy child and a dog who's anxiety seems to be decreasing towards the baby, my husband and I indulged ourselves in one last clam bake on Saturday night.
Splendid Jordan's was still open. So with one swift phone call we ordered a clam bake for two, got some Corona's and sat and feasted on a meal fit for kings. Definitely not one fit for parents who were supposed to baby proof and slacked off, but that might be the bad karma that has seemed to follow to meal.
You see, after we ate, licked our fingers, sucked any remaining meat out of shells, wiped the nuggets of corn from our mouths with our sleeves and went to bed I awoke to the retched smell of fish. Bad fish. Stinky fish.
I'd thrown all the shells outside before we'd went to bed, but the house still stank. I cleaned, scrubbed and eventually threw away anything that the lobster or butter may have touched, but I still smell it. Like a skunk hiding in the bush, I walk into the apartment and get a whiff of something that makes my stomach curl.
My husband thinks I'm deranged. He smells nothing. But it's there-lingering in my kitchen, my living room, my bed sheets-haunting my dreams, my day and reminding me of the vast punishment I'm facing. Like Poe's beating heart under the floorboards, my lobster stink is the creeping guilt of what I was supposed to do for my son. but indulged myself instead.