The relationship just had to end.
It had to. I had no choice.
I was making myself ill. It had to be done.
"Listen," I said, "I know that you're loyal. And sweet. And always there for me when I need you. You've never let me down -- not once -- and I adore you for that. You've been my rock. I would never have gotten through these last few years without you but ... I have to move on. I HAVE to."
And then I said it, the thing that no one wants to hear: "It's not you. It's ME."
When I turned away, I may have whimpered a little bit. In sorrow, and in shame.
There was a woman about my age standing there in the freezer aisle as well. Her eyes were filled with sympathetic tears. "Dieting?" she asked, dabbing at them with a tissue.
"Dairy allergy," I said sorrowfully, gazing at the rows of Ben and Jerry's stacked colourfully in the case.
"Oooooh, that is SO SAD," she said, touching my arm in sympathy. She nodded towards the Chunky Monkey. "They'll understand," she said.
"I know." I sighed. "I just hope the cheese case is as forgiving."
So that's the deal -- the icky sickyness that I've been dealing with? I've developed a DAIRY allergy. Good bye, Ben! Farewell, Jerry! So long, and thanks for all of the little chocolate fish.
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