My breasts ached a week ago and were tender to the touch. They hung heavier than usual and wouldn’t stay in my bra cups. I racked it up to hormones; I’d be starting my period any minute. Except I didn’t.
Sunday passed, then Monday. By Wednesday I was beginning to wonder how that conversation would go with The Soldier.
“Hi, TS. I know you totally stood me up on Saturday, but, uh, I’m pregnant and it can only be yours. Yeah, I know we used condoms and I’m on the pill, but what can I say? No, no, I’m not lying. I swear it’s true. Of course I’ll terminate it, but I need you to help me out with the costs.”
That is if he answered his phone. And at least I’d know whose it was this time…
That night I took a shower, absentmindedly mulling over how I might have to get my first abortion at 40 which made me sad. I always wanted more than one baby, but there’s no way I could support it on my own and it’d basically ruin Peyton’s life, the baby who’s already here and needs me.
I lathered, rinsed, shaved, turned the faucet off and reached for my towels. The dark blue one wrapped my hair and the white one I used on my body. My shoulders, arms, hips, thighs, between my legs.
There in rich, dark red was the definitive answer to my semi-worried musings: my blood.
I don’t know how many towels have been sacrificed like this one over the years and depending on where I am in life it can either be a nuisance or a relief. This time, I don’t mind losing a towel to the miracle of menstruation. I’d bathe in a tub of my blood if I could. It means one less awkward conversation I have to have with a guy who isn’t ready and one less awful decision to make.
Thanks, Aunt Flo. Nice to see you.
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