Ostrich

Dear A, I'm sorry I didn't realize you were allergic to ostrich.  I mean, seriously, how could I?  How did you?  Anyway, you took the fork of food I offered you, and I felt giddy because the moment felt sensual, your mouth inviting, the world between fingers and tines.  But after you swallowed, it's like life froze.  You put a hand to your throat, gagged for breath.  I thought you were choking, so I grabbed you from behind, pummeled your abdomen with my fist, even as you fought me off.  Then you're on the floor, convulsing, the room filled with gasps, the wait staff rushing to you, and I'm standing there like an idiot.  It wasn't right for me to just hightail it out of there.  And I'll reimburse you for the meal, of course, though I thought we had an agreement to go Dutch.  Anyway, I still question, how could I know, since ostrich is not even the other white meat but, at best, an other other white meat.  I remember going to the zoo when I was a child, my mother telling me an ostrich will steal your watch if you're too close.  My mom—we never got to talk about her.  It might've explained much.  Best, C.