I don’t get my period Tuesday morning, which would be okay, except my app expected it last Monday. No big deal. I’m turning thirty next year, so delays are normal. Maybe it’s just the stress of my shitty job, where I sit in a cubicle all day, AirPods in, surrounded by everyone else in their cubicles with their AirPods in, all our faces slack and obscenely blank. The AirPods aren’t part of the job. They’re a means of self-imposed exile by playlist. Our boss is a hovering micromanager, so I decorate my desk with a mirror disguised as a candy dish that fools no one, but it isn’t a safe space. I need to see who’s coming.
I’ve been meaning to look for a new job for the last five years, but once the workday is done, there’s no gas in the tank. Instead, I nest in my bed and fluff the covers around me. I watch Netflix and eat Chubby Hubby straight from the carton. My dad calls me a bump on a log, but I reassure him it isn’t that intentional. I don’t tell him it’s how I survive.
I haven’t even had the energy to break up with my boyfriend (and possible baby daddy?), Steve. Now this. I don’t want to be a mother. Just the thought of motherhood makes me want to take a nap.
So, when Tuesday comes and still no visit from Aunt Flo, I call out from work and consider buying a pregnancy test, even though I don’t want to know. If I’m pregnant, then I’ll have to tell Steve, and I don’t want to talk to him. The last time I had sex with him was so I didn’t have to listen to him talk about his podcast idea. I busy myself with chores around the apartment, starting with the bathroom counters, but then I see my menstrual cup, lonely in its case. That’s when the odor of disinfectant hits me—overpowering and medical. I toss the rag in the laundry, then cancel my highlights for Friday, because I’ve heard about dye toxicity in the first trimester, but it’s possible I made that up. I call my friend Tristan to see if he has time for coffee. He’s my stable and practical friend, the one who reminds me to file my taxes every year.
At the coffeehouse, the list of specialty lattes, cappuccinos, and espressos tempts me, but I order herbal tea. It’s what good mothers do, even though I don’t want to be a mother at all. When Tristan arrives, I’m relieved. I lay it all out for him, and he says now is the time to start acting like an adult. I tell him I’m not ready to give up my dreams for the future, where I start my own business and work as a laptop nomad from a beach in the Bahamas.
Tristan takes my hand from across our little coffeehouse table and tilts his head to the side with an expression on his face like he’s preparing me for bad news and says, “Oh, Honey. You haven’t even been able to buy a pregnancy test.”
I extract my hand from his and pretend I need it to bob my tea bag in my mug. Explaining my situation to Tristan is like confessing to tax evasion to someone who files in January. Today, his earnest face waiting for a response almost makes me laugh. I keep bobbing my tea bag. When the tea grows cold and I’m steady enough to stand, I say goodbye and leave.
A few blocks over, I find a drugstore. I wait outside its automatic door for a minute and listen to cars pass on the street. I hear them because I don’t have my AirPods in. I also hear a voice in my head say, “You are not broken,” but I can’t tell if it’s the voice of the person I once thought I could be or my usual voice saying what broken people say to themselves.
Inside the store, I wander the aisles. Acne cleanser. Dandruff control. No-leak menstrual pads, incontinence pads, odor protection, and, of course, vaginal lubricant. A young woman browses the condom selection, turning a box over in her hands. I want to nudge her, tell her to read the package insert carefully, but I keep walking. I find the rows of pregnancy tests. Quick results! Three minutes! Easy to read! I grab one off the rack. Very light. The egg and the sperm, two dopes cradled in cellular goo. Hanging out, swimming around, clueless.
At the cashier stand, I notice a magazine in the rack. Its cover shows a wash of color and light, a smatter of diamonds across a blooming, gaseous neon glow. Manifestation, the magazine reads in white block lettering across the front. I hear the voice again. It says, “With the Big Bang, all was set in motion.”
I rush out of line. Back in the feminine care aisle, I put down the test kit and pick up a box of tampons. No. I pick up the test kit again and put the tampons down. Then, I pick up a different box of tampons, super plus. One in each hand. Okay. I’ll get both.
Before I make it back to the register, I hit the makeup aisle and grab a new eyelash serum.
I pay, and on the way out, I look up to see me looking at myself in a convex security mirror. Huge head, tiny body, like an insect disoriented by a glowing light. Staring into the store’s glass eye, I expect someone to come up behind me, but no one does. It’s just me and the plastic bag in my hand, swaying in and out of focus.
