Not Pregnant. She shook the digital stick and the extraneous word held steady. Blink. Still there. Christopher! Shocking green tape hid shattered glass, evidence of Monday’s departure. He ignored her messages, thinning now after five days of reality.
He had laughed, at first, stretching his naked toes through the wooly bathroom rug. Fingers perfected each glistening strand before he glimpsed her tearful reflection, and called her a liar. She produced the stick with the blue lines, then the package instructions.
Their lives juggled sizzling into a vanilla bathroom baggie, tied and tied and bagged again as his acid words stripped raw her dewy skin. Words from walls on needle-strewn streets found canvas on sweating suburban marble as he dressed without missing a button. She bled for comfort but did not bleed. The bag jiggled limp in his purpling fist as he crashed the door open, splintering lead and antique glass.
She touched her tearless eye now and crouched on the foyer steps, frozen at the turning lock. “Peaches! I’m back,” came the comforting voice she craved, “what the heck happened to the door?”