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 accepted all of 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 song, then stopped as urine hit the toilet water.

I slapped the test against my hand the way my Big used to during sorority initiation. She hazed me with a paddle decorated with fake gems attached with glitter glue. If the restroom’s lights turned off, I would leap backward ten years into the dark basement of an abandoned building with my Sisters. The toilet automatically flushed as I moved around in the stall.

Regardless if this was the seventh test, I wasn’t crazy for wanting a minus sign instead of an equal sign. Right now, joy would be a M-Dash, which translated into: “From now on, use birth control or at least make them wear a condom. 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 while I considered aborting my first? According to the office, I was the next Social Media Director for the company because Prada was having her fifth and last child soon, and as long as high schoolers remained our product’s number one target audience the promotion had my name on it. So where would a baby fit in that promotion?

Adidas broke up with me eight days ago after Puma confronted him about our affair in the hopes 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 encourage homogeneity. Then, we would have to skip mass on Saturday afternoons with Father Molaester. But shouldn’t they martyr me if I keep it?

If I loved him enough to ruin my moneymakers, then, he should have a free pass to love anyone, permitted by the Pope.

“I don’t want D cups,” I said to the toilet. I groped my B cups and frowned. “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 immediately as Red and Blue-Flashing Sketchers squeaked into the stall next to me. On my knees, I realized the test stopped short from touching the color-flashing shoes.

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

“Yes,” a small voice said. Her hand reached for the test, but couldn’t grab the test without scooting off the toilet seat.

“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’s in the oval?”

“A line?” the little girl said. “I don’t understand what that means.”

“Neither do I.”



Harry sat across Amanda at a diner off I-70. Although she chose, Amanda hadn’t known that the low-lit booth was the same booth Harry and Mallory used to share. The waitress gathered orders. Harry watched Amanda lecture about Mitch McConnell as her familiar birdlike nose switched from long to short with each turn. The waitress returned with waters, a waffles, and a veggie omelet. Amanda’s glossy lips entranced Harry while Mallory’s strawberry lips melted his heart. Amanda tossed her golden hair behind her; the diner went black; Mallory pulled her chocolate hair into a ponytail; plates shattered in the kitchen; the lights returned. Harry sat across the woman who belonged.