42/90

She didn't say much, but I knew it was killing her. Between the sniffling, the chewing, the stirring and the pacing, I wouldn't have sat quietly like she did. I wouldn't have managed to channel all of my frustration into a subtle sideways glance when I lifted fork to mouth.

Between the guacamole, onions, vegetarian "chik'n" and medium salsa, I know the salad had to smell. I know that it kept smelling each time I stirred it. Or  at least, I'm assuming. Like I said, I'm congested.

I spent a week at home in Ohio, sleeping in a bedroom normally shared with a guinea pig.

I am allergic to guinea pigs. My time home is spent in a tingling fuzz of allergy medicine cocktails. My first few days back in Muncie are a recovery period of sniffles, horrendous snoring and breathing through my mouth. This makes it hard to chew a salad with my mouth closed, without choking or sneezing lettuce.

When I packed my lunch this morning, a salad of leftover taco ingredients, I didn't consider who would be sitting next to me when I ate it in the library basement. I didn't notice the smell, because for ten days I have smelled nothing but the insides of my nostrils. The thought didn't cross my mind until I opened the plastic container, dumped my mashed avocados onto my salsa-coated, chopped up chik'n nuggets and began stirring the mess into my lettuce.

I could insult the size of the girl sitting next to me, or insult her purple sun dress that surrounded her chair. It would make me feel better for annoying her. I will instead insult her by including this small reference and leaving the rest to the imagination.

She watched me stir. Watched me take small bites that still left shredded iceberg lettuce hanging from the sides of my mouth. Watched me choke slightly on a slippery piece of chik'n. Watched me carry the tub of salad to the printer line– a short moment of relief for her– and then come back– a longer moment of quiet desperation. Watched me walk back to the printer again, shout at the printer in the library basement while tomato sticks between my teeth, walk back to my Mac station, click print again, click print again, walk to the printer, print one document, walk back and repeat the process four times.

She never made direct eye contact. Never even huffed or slowed the pace of her stead typing. Never moved her perfectly aligned papers away from my half of our table. Never had a shaking hand when she crossed items off of her to-do list.

I finished my salad, walked to the Card Cat computer, grabbed a hand sanitizing wet nap, cleaned my fork and dropped it into my backpack. When I came back to gather my things and head out for some sunshine, she was gone.