The Snort

“Certain times of the year I snort more than others,” I said to my friend Rick. I blew the left side of my nose into some tissues, and then I blew the right side, but nothing was coming out. It was infuriating. I snorted again. “Sometimes it sounds like you’re laughing at me under your breath when you do that,” he said. “I’m sorry about that.” I took a sip of water and made a face because it was too warm. I filled my water bottle with ice and water. I took another sip. “That’s better,” I said. I snorted. Rick snorted a couple of times to make fun of me. “Careful, or I’m going to do it extra often tonight when we go out in public.” “I’ll kill you,” he said. “Seriously, I’m so sick of these allergies,” I said. “It wasn’t like this last year. It’s like the earth has decided to really hammer us with allergens for being such idiots.” “Why don’t you go to the doctor and get some medicine for it?” Rick said. He was always super empathic. “That’s what human beings do when they’re not feeling well.” I turned and looked out the window, licked my bottom lip and clenched my teeth. I put my hands in my pockets, looked out over the trees for someone or something to come save me, a black ooze, a flying train, a superhero, but nothing came. I turned back to my friend and smiled and said, “Maybe you’re right,” just before I let out a really long snort that with a little help from my throat had made a sound like someone trying to find a station on an old radio.

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