Allergy Girl VIIISandra Beasley
I try not to tell them at first or if I do, to cut them off. Even breast milk? Even pot smoke? Yes. Even you. Yes, you. The one who had a mouthful of chocolate without telling me, taunting I guess not so sensitive before I turned on the light to a collarbone covered in hives. The one who could cook omelets, macaroni, lamb in mango reduction, who called my friend from his kitchen, You're gonna have to help me here. The one who lit his American Spirits, asked for my roster of old lovers and, when I teared up not from the litany but from tobacco, Oh god I’m an ass kissed me upon each watery red eye. It’s a defense mechanism. It’s a non sequitur. It’s a psychosomatic nightmare. It's a vaudeville act. The one who walked me to the library after our first dinner date. Café Europa used goat milk in the pita. He’d touched me with feta on his fingers. I smiled tightly. He rounded the corner. I called the ambulance. The same ex who admitted, when I visited him last week, I’ve been eating cottage cheese and yogurt to ensure a G-rated goodbye.
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