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If I have to stay in this meeting one more second, I’m going to lose my mind.

In the month I’ve been at this temp job, my expected contribution to meetings has been made very clear: I take minutes. I am not expected to come up with ideas or talk or think. I just write down what everyone else says and what time they said it. It’s important work. (Not.)

I’ve got a paper and pen out because I haven’t been granted a laptop, and for the first twenty minutes of the meeting, I was doing a great job taking notes—I was a temp superstar—but over the next twenty minutes, that has changed drastically. I have become increasingly distracted by an intense itching sensation over my entire chest and arms. It is all I can think about.

I’ve been noticing it more and more. Not every day, but lately, I’ve been itchy more often than not. And today is the worst it’s ever been.

“Porter?”

I rub my fingers along my forearm, but what I really want to do is rip open my shirt and scratch at my chest for five straight minutes or until I draw blood, whichever comes first. I don’t know what’s under my shirt, but the angry red is now creeping out from under my sleeve.

“Porter!”

My head snaps up. My boss, a guy named Kenny who is definitely no older than thirty, is staring at me. I grip my pen tighter, pretending I’m writing down whatever boring crap they were just discussing about synergistic solutions. Taking minutes at a meeting is such a shit job. I didn’t even know companies did that anymore. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“So what are you waiting for?” Kenny asks me.

I raise my eyes to look up at his clean-shaven face. He obviously asked something of me when I wasn’t paying attention because I was too distracted trying not to scratch my own skin off, and now I have no idea what it is. All I can do is stare at him blankly.

“Coffee, Porter,” he sighs. “Can you grab us a fresh pot?”

I forgot to mention my other important job during these meetings: fetching coffee.

“Right.” I leap to my feet. “Of course. I’m so sorry.”

I snatch the empty coffeepot from the back of the conference room. As I’m leaving the room, I overhear Kenny saying to someone else, “Some of these temps are better than others, huh?”

Great. So much for this job turning permanent.

Since I have no shot of ever working here, I take my sweet time getting more coffee. I bring the pot to the break room, but instead of filling it up, I leave it there and make a beeline for the men’s room.

Thankfully, nobody is inside since everyone is at the meeting. I undo the tiny buttons on the shirt, resisting the temptation to rip it open. When all the buttons are undone, I yank the shirt open. And I gasp.

No wonder I’m so freaking itchy. There’s an angry red rash covering every inch of my chest. I take the shirt off entirely and discover it’s on my arms and back as well. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I stand there for several minutes, going to town scratching every inch of my body that I can reach until my skin is raw and practically bleeding.

Why did I break out in a rash like this? Given it’s localized to the area under my dress shirt, I have to assume that’s the cause. But this shirt isn’t new. I’ve had it for years, and it never caused a problem. And the itching has been bothering me every day, even when I’m wearing different shirts.

It can’t be the laundry detergent. I would love to use a detergent where the bottle features a big burly man holding a sledgehammer against a backdrop of the woods, but instead I buy a detergent that has a stuffed animal on it that is hypoallergenic because I know I’m sensitive to that kind of stuff. But even the burly man detergent never made me break out like this. The only thing that makes me break out in a rash like this is…

Limonene.

I am extremely allergic to limonene, which is a citrus-scented fragrance chemical often found in laundry detergent. I found that out as a kid, when I used to break out in a rash every time my mom used it. So I avoid it. Krista knows to avoid any detergent with limonene listed as an ingredient. In fact, I’ve asked her not to use it in our machine at all, because even the residual in the machine can irritate my skin.

But Whitney doesn’t know this.

It hits me now that I’ve been noticing the itching sensation since right after Whitney moved in with us, a little over a month ago now. The timeline matches up. Whitney must be using a detergent with limonene in the washing machine, and then when I wash my clothes, they are picking up the residual. And now I have to talk to her about it, which I’m sure will be a fun conversation.

I recognize I can’t spend the day here in the men’s room, scratching my chest. And I’m not doing myself any favors. On top of the rash, I now have scratch marks running up and down my skin. I have to put my shirt back on, fill up that pot of coffee, and proceed with my exciting day of menial tasks.

I splash cold water on myself, hoping that will soothe my raw, aching skin. It helps a little, although more than that, it makes my shirt slightly damp. When I get back to the meeting, they are going to wonder what the hell I was doing all this time.

It’s safe to say I’ve blown any chance of ever working here. And I better get my act together ASAP before I lose everything.