Miss Wrong and Mr Right by Robert Bryndza

looked gruesome, like he was wearing a fat suit. They rushed over and began firing questions at me. What’s his name? What triggered the allergy? Was it a sex act with latex? Peanuts?  
    ‘It was soya yoghurt,’ I blurted. ‘And we weren’t using it in a sex act… I pepper sprayed him…’  
    ‘So this is an intruder?’ asked the woman prising Benjamin’s puffy lips apart and shining a torch in his mouth. ‘You defended yourself with a soya yoghurt, then pepper spray?’
    ‘No. He’s my boyfriend, we’ve been together for a year… He has a soya allergy… I pepper sprayed him, then tried to soothe it with soya yoghurt,’ I explained.
    ‘And you didn’t know about his allergy?’ asked the male paramedic.  
    ‘Men never tell you anything! You have to wrestle the most basic things out of them…’ I said. It hung in the air for a moment. The woman unwrapped a plastic syringe and gave Benjamin a shot of adrenalin; he took a sharp intake of breath.
    ‘Benjamin, can you hear me?’ asked the woman. ‘You’ve had a nasty reaction and we’re going to take you to hospital…’
      Benjamin murmured something through a thick tongue. They positioned the stretcher beside the sofa, swung him round and heaved him over and onto it.
    ‘Airway is now relaxed and open,’ said the woman unwrapping another needle from a plastic pack and sliding it into Benjamin’s arm. She worked quickly attaching a tube which led up to a bag of clear fluid.  
    ‘Is he going to die?’ I asked, now very scared. I thought even Sharon would agree that Macing Benjamin, then death through anaphylactic shock was revenge too far. The man opened out a rod connected to the pop-up stretcher and hooked up the fluid bag.
    ‘We got here in time. He’s stable now,’ he said.
    ‘Right let’s move,’ said the woman throwing a red blanket over Benjamin. I grabbed my bag and followed them out into the communal garden.
    ‘Does Benjamin have an EpiPen?’ asked the man as they lifted the stretcher up the three small steps leading to the path.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said running along beside. ‘He’s only got a toothbrush here… I wanted him to bring more stuff, but he always refused…’
    Benjamin’s hand emerged from under the blanket.
    ‘He wants your hand,’ said the woman. I cottoned on and grabbed it, but had to let go again as they swung the stretcher round to the ambulance. With a thunk of the wheels collapsing, the stretcher was in. I went to follow but they said there was no room and I was to meet them at the hospital.  
    ‘Do you want me to come?’ I asked.
    ‘You’re his girlfriend, yes?’ asked the woman.
    ‘Um, well it’s kind of…’
    ‘We have to go. We’ll be at Guy’s and Tommy’s,’ she said and slammed the doors. The ambulance streaked away with the sirens and lights on. I flagged down a cab and got to Guy’s and St. Thomas’ Hospital twenty minutes later.  
    The accident and emergency department was crowded. Babies were crying, an elderly lady was sitting with a huge swollen ankle. Another woman was leaning against the wall clutching at her head, blood seeping from a wound and staining her white t-shirt. Two receptionists were answering phones, and I joined a queue at the desk. I got to the front a few minutes later and asked the younger, friendlier receptionist where I could find Benjamin Jarvis. She tapped away at her computer then asked me to take a seat.
    ‘Could you tell me what’s going on? Is he okay?’ I asked.
    ‘The doctor is assessing him now,’ she said.
    ‘Is he going to be all right?’  
    ‘We’ll know more when the doctor has assessed him, please take a seat,’ she said firmly. I stood there for a moment and saw a woman with a tiny baby behind me. I sat and began to think, should I contact Benjamin’s parents? Where would I get their number? I knew he had a sister called Emma, and she lived in Reading but I’d never met her either. I didn’t even have a key to go and