The Principle Of Rational Deniability  

You're standing in an elevator, accompanied by a female stranger who enters on the next floor after you get on. Let's say that an odious fragrance currently emanates, violating all standards associated with breeding and good taste.  An infinite number of permutations exist for the placement of blame. Ultimately, however, in the grand scheme of universal order, there is but one.  Was it Ogden Nash who commented on these vagaries when he pointed out, ‘The smeller’s the feller’?   Perhaps not, but the point is moot, especially when there are but two people on the elevator and one of them happens to be a woman whom you've not had the pleasure of introduction.

Oh, it’s possible that the noxious odor might have permeated your pores and found their way through some previously unknown biological pipeline from colon to skin, where they were released into the air, tiny missiles of methane smelling exactly like the porta-potty on a construction site; but, if common sense is allowed to see the light of day, you maintain a certain air of self-assurance, forearmed with the knowledge that you were not the issuing party.  The old saying, ‘He who smelt it, dealt it’ definitely did not apply.  In fact, at this point, a better old saying might be She who denied it, supplied it.

Not that this would have any bearing on the situation.  She's quite content to ignore you, save the defensive glower emanating from some deep part of her psyche that lets you know she certainly didn’t do it, and how dare you cut the cheese on the elevator.  Her sense of dignity demands that she play her hand to the last bluff, her lone deuces prevailing over your royal flush of nescience.      

Of course, there is no defense for this, given the societal demand for politeness and silence when in the presence of female strangers in confined quarters.  Although, it does appear a bit unseemly of her, however, to inch her way to the extreme back of the elevator, evidently in her attempt to reinforce her innocence.  It would be understandable, were there other ladies present; they would follow her lead and when the elevator doors opened, a casual observer would have witnessed them lock-stepping off the elevator, fanning the air in revulsion as you hold the doors open, armed with nothing but a mea culpa expression.

At some point, one might be tempted to fight fire with fire, and under normal circumstances,  you might actually have the arsenal necessary for engagement. In fact, had you made her acquaintance previously in any manner, no matter how peripheral, you would have granted her uxorial status and joined the battle. But, what if you're simply no match for her firepower? What if your normally vast reserves of ammunition were dangerously depleted, rendering you incapable of full-frontal assault or any sort of retaliatory response?  These situations always occur on days you skip lunch...

The ding of a bell precedes the opening of the doors.  Fourteenth floor… her floor.  The eternity between the sound and her egress provides you opportunity for non-verbal engagement.  You fire a salvo of We’ll meet again, sister with the closed-mouth flash of a perfunctory smile. She pins you down with the machine gun fire of her steely, laser-beam eyes and sends round after round of In your dreams, asshole… as she departs.

As the doors close, you realize she’s left you yet another gift, and you now hope there's enough remaining oxygen to sustain life to the twentieth floor.  Worse, the stylish young woman who’s just gotten on is staring at you and inching her way to the far back corner.  It wasn’t me, lady… honest.

Aw, forget it… take your best shot.  What did Ogden Nash know, anyway?