He rambles on while he cooks, talking more than I’ve ever heard him speak, but I can’t focus on a thing other than the fact that this man who everything in my entire body tells me to hate remembered what I’m allergic to even though I’ve never actually told him. That he recognized the signs of anaphylactic shock and rushed to my side. That he stayed there for four hours while I slept in the hospital. That he brought me home, gave me a bed, threw out all his nut products, and fucking sanitized his kitchen.
