Allergic to Love by Kim Hutchinson

The day she moved in, he developed a rash in an unmentionable place. The sex stopped then and there.

Later, he started breaking out in hives when she kissed him. That led to a lot of awkward flinching. Soon, kissing stopped, too.

In fact, everything stopped: ear nibbling, hand-holding, backrubs, footsies. You name it, it was off the list.

“You might as well face it,” he joked, “I’m allergic to love.”

For years, they sat on opposite sides of the TV room. She sprawled out on the couch, and he flopped in his easy chair, snoring by the second act of the movie.

Last Friday, she woke up at five and he wasn’t in bed. On her way to the bathroom, she passed the den, where he sat in front of his big 22-inch computer monitor. The size was a point of pride. He mentioned it often.

On the screen, a familiar woman’s face was contorted in orgasm.

She gasped.

He turned, stuffing his erection back in his gym pants. “It’s just a porn video,” he said, “It’s nothing.”

She knew better. She always had. She’d seen the breakouts, blotches and blistering skin.

An hour later, she came out of the bedroom with her packed bags. This time, all she could feel was sorry.

A Pinocchio-sized zit had popped up on his nose.

When she left, his computer was still turned on.

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