Hay Fever

The pollen had been bad for three days. By noon, every car in town wore a yellow film and my eyes felt sanded from the inside. I took two Benadryl before leaving the house and tucked a clean white handkerchief into my coat pocket. By the time I reached the storage building, my mouth was dry, my head felt pleasantly distant, and I had sneezed twice into a white handkerchief I intended to burn later.

He arrived six minutes late.

When he saw my watering eyes, he slowed down.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

He looked relieved, which told me he had decided the tears meant something. Regret, maybe. Guilt. Some final weakness he could recognize and therefore manage.

People like explanations that make them feel important.

I let him keep his.

Inside, he talked for almost two minutes before noticing I had locked the door behind us. He stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked toward the handle.

That was when I sneezed again.

I caught it in the handkerchief, folded it once, and apologized out of habit.

His face changed.

It is remarkable how quickly people become attentive when they finally understand the room they are standing in.

What happened after that was quiet and uncomplicated.

When I stepped outside again, the wind had picked up. Cottonwood fluff moved across the pavement like ash. I stood beside my car, sneezed once more, and carefully folded the handkerchief so the wet side faced inward before slipping it back into my pocket.

The Benadryl had finally started working.

I remember thinking that was considerate of it.