Page 6 of Serenity
“Your face... It’s swelling.”
Eyes blooming, brows hiked, I rested my fork down beside the plate of food. With haste, I shuffled for my phone in my purse and pulled up the camera application.
An examination of my face revealed I was, indeed, swelling. The source of the reaction was yet to be discovered, but it wasn’t Sean, as I initially assumed. I had no known food allergies.
“Swhit.”
My bottom lip was hastily growing. Simultaneously, my throat seemed to be collapsing inward. The protrusion disfigured me into a cartoon character. The inflation of my lips and the obstruction of my throat caused a panic in me. My thoughts were feral and exaggerated. Horror consumed me at the thought of it being my last night on earth.
“Swean.”
My handsome saccharine date rose from his seat and was by my side in an instant. We rushed out of the Butter & Sage after the meal was comped due to my unknown reaction.
At the hospital, I received an epinephrine shot and was informed that I had a severe mushroom allergy. Sean remained by my side every step of the embarrassing and frightening ordeal, brushing me off with every apology I offered.
As I said, he was sweet.
I went home that evening, recalling pity-filled eyes and the sympathetic hug I was awarded in lieu of a kiss or plans to link again. Hair wrapped, bonnet on, showered, and comfortably between fourteen hundred thread count sheets, my phone buzzed with a text from the man I’d shared my evening with.
I enjoyed our time together,
and I hate that our evening was
disrupted by your unexpected allergy.
I do hope you’re okay.
Ditto, Sean. Ditto. The sprinkle of hope I held to see him again diminished as I kept reading his message:
My wife passed away from an
uncontrolled allergy to peanuts.
Tonight triggered me in a way
that has put me two steps back
in my healing.
Damn. Dammit. Damn.
You’re a wonderful woman,
Serenity.
But…
There was always a but.
…but I can’t see you again.
I wish you well.
Jesus wept, and internally, so did I. As wonderful and refreshing as Sean had been, I understood his stance. Reliving trauma placed him in an impossible position. A position I cared not to place anyone in at the start of a potential romance. His feelings were valid, as were mine. What missed me was never for me.
Depleted of energy and desire to issue a response, I silenced my phone for the evening. Clicking off my nightstand’s lamp, I fell into the welcome arms of slumber.
Dating in the modern world was such a tiresome sport. One I only tepidly played. Men were hardly men. The small percentage of those who could be considered men possessed scarcely tolerable eccentricities. A war against black love was being waged, convincing us that we didn’t need one another. Convincing us that love had grown obsolete.