I occupied the handicap stall at the local pharmacy on the corner of Sick and Scared. The toilet was my only friend at this point and I appreciated its company because the toilet at least took all my shit.

Dark brown Leather Riding Boots with salt damage around the toes shuffled into the adjacent stall. The boots tapped faster than the average EDM beat, then stopped as urine hit the toilet, followed by a euphoric ahhh of relief.

I slapped the test against my hand the way my Big did during sorority initiation. She hit me with a paddle decorated with fake gems attached with glitter glue. At a certain angle, my hands glitter in the light.

The toilet flushed automatically.

Regardless if this was the seventh test today, I wasn’t crazy for wanting a minus sign instead of an equal sign. Right now, joy would be an M-Dash, which meant: “From now on, use birth control, or at least make them wear a condom because you might have a child by what’s his ugly dumbass face.”

By the third and fourth slap, Leather Riding Boots left without washing her hands.

“The worst kind of person,” I whispered. But how could I judge her when I considered aborting my first?

Adidas broke up with me eight days ago after Puma confronted him about our affair in the hope that I would stand beside him after his fistfight victory. Now, I stood alone talking to this toilet with potato chip breath and dry hair.

The test appeared blank still.

Charlie is a nice name for a boy. I would teach him to stay away from women though, and force homosexuality. But then, we would have to skip mass on Saturday afternoons with Father McAlister. The church should martyr me if I keep this child, that’s all I’m saying. If I love him enough to ruin my moneymakers, then, my baby should have a free pass to love anyone, signed by the Pope.

“I don’t want D cups,” I said to the toilet, groping my B cups with frown. “I also don’t want a girl.”

No. I’m the worst kind of person.

The toilet flushed on its own again.

The test fell on the ground as soon as Red and Blue-Flashing Sketchers squeaked into the stall next to me. On my hands and knees, I realized the test stopped short from touching the colorful-flashing shoes.

“Little girl,” I said, “Can you grab that white strip near your foot please?”

“Okay,” she said. Her hand reached for the test, but couldn’t grab the test without scooting off the toilet and putting her feet on the tile again.

“Here you go,” the little girl said. She held the test under the plastic divider between us.

I pulled my hand back. “Can you tell me what you see in the oval?”

“Two lines? An equal sign? I don’t get it?”

“Neither do I.”