As soon as allergy season hits, days, moments—time—means nothing anymore.
My eyes begin to itch, and I say goodbye to my mother and father. I tell Leon and Eric, Sarah and Al, everyone down at the office: “Things have been swell.”
I leave a note in an envelope for Mrs. Stein, the older woman next door. I tell her, “Take care of Russell,” my three-year-old terrier. I give her a key and write her a check for expenses.
My throat feels scratchy.
As I’m giving away all of the things I own, I assure everyone, “I’m not doing anything foolish. Just taking the necessary precautions.” A toaster oven for Elizabeth. A coat rack for Mark.
I can feel how puffy my eyes are. And to think, I was just getting used to this place.