While I had been dreading the rehearsal dinner for Judith's wedding, I had also thought it would be somewhat less of an ordeal than the bridesmaid dress fitting and "girls' lunch". At least with a dinner I wouldn't have to have my measurements taken in front of other people - another unpleasant reminder of parts I didn't want, parts to be remarked on; I was still unhappy with "you've got great tits!" - and while I resented having to wear a dress again, and having to shop for it since my old cocktail dress didn't fit anymore, at least I had more of a measure of control over my appearance than I did in the bridesmaid getup... and I was of the assumption that with dinner at a fancy restaurant, the atmosphere would be somewhat more relaxed and less chatty, since other people would be enjoying their gourmet food.
Right?
Hahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Ahem.
The first sign that things were going to go wrong was when Steve saw my dress. He hadn't gone shopping with me - that had been my mum, as part of the "girls' day out" I felt obligated to do with her to avoid disappointing her and my worries that would result in her drinking. So my mother and I had done the salon and the spa and she had "helped" me pick out a lacy black dress that was a little more femme than I was comfortable with but I was too tired to argue with her about it.
This was my first time trying it on since I'd bought it, the first time Steve was seeing me in it, and... Steve laughed a little. "Wow, this reminds me of those photos I saw of you when you were a teenage goth."
I pursed my lips and blinked.
For the record, when I was a goth, I wore what was called Tripp pants or bondage pants - wide-legged trousers with lots of pockets and chains and random zippers - and stuff like band T-shirts or, if I had to "femme up", bare midriff shirts or a mesh shirt with a camisole underneath. I was not into gothic lolita fashion, though Judith had been and pulled it off well...
...and this was still not that. I suppose it looked vaguely Victorian goth, but that wasn't really the vibe I got from the dress. But even more than me being annoyed with Steve not understanding goth, and feeling the pedantic urge to correct him and educate him about something I knew he had no interest in, I was annoyed that he seemed to find it funny, something to laugh at. Everyone is stupid when they're a teenager and I was no exception, but I also felt like he was making fun of me and that was not really what I needed right then.
Then I got angry with myself for even giving a shit. You're going to file for divorce in July when this is over. His opinion of you doesn't matter. But as much as I tried to tell myself that, it still hurt to see one more thing where we were just... fundamentally incompatible, he didn't get me, I didn't get him, and it felt like failure.
It was a rainy night in June, and usually I found driving in the rain soothing, but I really didn't want to be in the car with Steve. I started zoning out, that feeling like I was floating outside of my body again... and I remembered my goth years, my first visit to the United States. My brain caught an earworm.
You shut your mouth
How can you say
I go about things the wrong way?
I am human and I need to be loved
Just like everybody else does
I continued to zone out through the wedding rehearsal, but I managed to come back to myself a bit when it was time for the rehearsal dinner. I was looking forward to the food, and especially a nice piece of cake for dessert as a way to reward myself for surviving this bullshit.
And of course, the bridesmaids and their dates were all shooting the breeze, and once again I felt like I was on the outside looking in, but even worse than I had at the "girls' lunch" after the fitting because now there were more people. And even Steve, who was only attending as my plus-one and barely knew Judith, was much better able to occasionally chime in and make a comment or a joke, than I was. I squirmed in my seat and kept glancing over at the door, desperately wanting to leave.
It felt like an eternity between the time we sat down and the time we ordered and then when the appetizers began arriving. When the waitstaff began bringing the appetizers, I started to feel violently nauseated. I had also felt sick that morning and chalked it up to adrenaline before a stressful event - I sometimes felt ill before a big court case. But once my meal was set before me - a lovely plate of chicken alfredo pasta with mushrooms - I was so physically uncomfortable, my stomach roiling, that I could only pick at my food.
That got Judith started. "I wish I had your discipline, Toni. No wonder you have such a nice figure!"
"Oh, Judith, don't put yourself down like that." It broke my heart every time she got down on herself about her weight. I shoved a forkful of chicken into my mouth to prove a point, and resisted the impulse to immediately spit it back out, feeling like I was about to retch. "I'm just..." I waved my fork around. "I had a stressful week at work." That wasn't a lie - I was no stranger to the adrenaline crash after a courtroom battle - but it usually wasn't this bad. I didn't have the heart to tell her how much I hated all of this and wished she hadn't invited me to be one of her bridesmaids.
I started eating more chicken, again to prove a point. The chicken itself was probably delicious but everything tasted like mushy cardboard to me with my stomach heaving.
"Toni eats," Steve said, nodding. "She loves her sausage. And she gets plenty of exercise, if you know what I mean, right?" Steve nudged me and winked.
The off-colour remark elicited a round of giggles from the ladies and guffaws from the gentlemen... and my face burned and now I felt ready to spit.
I wasn't a prude, I was raised by a literal sailor, I'd told more than a few filthy jokes. But this was not the time and the place, especially when Steve was lying through his teeth, swinging his metaphorical dick around in public to try to make himself look like a big man. While I'd resolved to file divorce papers in July I hadn't told him yet, and I'd "gone through the motions" to avoid even more conflicts and tension, including letting him fuck me a few times. But we weren't having regular sex at all anymore; it had been over a week. I wasn't getting "plenty of exercise", unless you counted using my wrist, and even my usually-strong libido had waned with the ongoing stressors.
I wiped my mouth with my napkin and discreetly spat my chicken into the napkin and then I got up. "Will you excuse me? Nature calls," I lied.
There is a common assumption that women go to the restroom in pairs or packs, but instead of Judith or my mum or one of Judith's friends offering to go with me, Steve was hot on my heels. He grabbed my arse on the way to the restroom and I wanted to slap his hand - in years past I would have welcomed the flirting and grabbed his arse right back - but now I felt like he was parading me around like some trophy whore for man points and my blood was boiling.
And I would have told him that, but with every step my stomach churned and I felt that gag reflex build and build and build. I tried to hurry without just breaking into a run - because throwing up on the floor, in public, was the last thing I needed tonight. But Steve took me walking faster as an invitation, chasing me a little, and as we stepped into the foyer just before the door to the women's room, Steve shoved me into a corner and gave me a deep, passionate kiss.
For a brief instant I wanted to throw up, right into his mouth, and hopefully he'd never kiss me again. But instead I went along, not wanting to fight with him, and then my stomach lurched and my brain warned me: It's time.
I pulled back - Steve was breathing harder, his face flushed, eyes narrowed and gleaming. I knew that look. He was interpreting me getting up after his remark and hurrying to the restroom as me signaling for a quickie. I shook my head and took a couple of steps backwards towards the bathroom. "IgottagoIdon'tfeelgood," I blurted out.
Steve's mouth opened and his eyes widened. It dawned on him. "You don't want to -"
"Don'tfeelgood," I repeated and stepped through the bathroom door, praying he wouldn't follow. The last thing I saw before the door swung shut was Steve's crestfallen face and him muttering, "Shit."
I wanted to laugh, he deserved it - but the bile rose. I quickly maneuvered to the toilet and knelt before it, dry heaving... grateful that I kept my hair short and it wasn't in the way.
After several dry heaves the acrid bile came out in a scorching flood. I coughed and gagged at the taste, lingering as I couldn't run to a faucet right then but now I had to piss from all the heaving, so I sat there with my mouth burning with the rancid aftertaste.
After I washed my hands I cupped them under the faucet and lapped up water, but it still wasn't enough. I rummaged around in my little purse but I'd forgotten to bring breath mints, of course because there wasn't a whole lot of room there, needing a tiny delicate purse for this ridiculous dress. I looked into the mirror and Steve's dirty joke and the subsequent groping replayed in my mind's eye.
I knew it wasn't me Steve wanted. I felt used, like some convenient hole there to fuck and then brag about the fucking to prove his manhood. I hated him. I hated this entire goddamn world.
I hated myself most of all. I crossed my arms over my breasts, remembering how suicidal I felt when they began to grow, my body betraying me. Finding catharsis in Kurt Cobain's raw anger, then Morrissey's mournful wail. I am a failed woman. Then the followup thought: I was never one to begin with.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw my own skin off. But instead I broke down crying, because even more than that I wanted to go home and not have to go back out to those awful vapid people droning on and on about shit I wasn't interested in and...
I let myself cry for a moment, then I splashed water on my face - like that would hide the evidence, it didn't - and I took a few deep breaths. I had a feeling that Steve wouldn't be out there in the foyer, since it looked a bit creepy, though I wondered if he went to the men's room to have a wank, with how horny he'd been a few moments ago. As much as I didn't want to see him, I was hoping he was there so I could ask him to take me home in private, rather than in front of Judith and hurt her feelings.
To my surprise, he was in the foyer still - and he wasn't alone. I recognized Trisha, aka Beatrice Courtenay, one of my colleagues.
Trisha came from peerage stock, and thought she was better than everyone. In fact, while this restaurant was upmarket, it still seemed like she'd find it a bit common. She was blonde, and pretty in the classic "English rose" way. Her hourglass figure was accentuated by a silky black mermaid-style gown that made me feel like a frumpy schoolmarm.
Trisha and Steve had been friends at school - to my understanding, they had dated at one time before I came into the picture but the relationship quickly ended because Trisha's parents didn't approve of him. Trisha and I had never gotten along, Trisha was one of the people spreading rumours that I was a butch lesbian during uni, and she made jokes about how I was "really a man". But Trisha and Steve were cordial, and I didn't feel it was appropriate for me to tell him who he could and couldn't associate with, even though I strongly disliked their friendship.
Even though I didn't give two shits about Trisha, she and Steve were friendly enough that I occasionally heard news of her when Steve talked my ear off about his "squad". Last I'd heard, now that her father was dead and she'd gotten her inheritance, she was dating whoever she pleased and her latest boyfriend was a doctor from a working-class background.
"Trisha," I said, with just enough venom in my voice where she'd notice and Steve probably wouldn't. "Fancy seeing you here. How's life treating you? How's your boyfriend?"
"Oh," Trisha said, giving a tiny smirk. "He dumped me a fortnight ago and after I was done drinking and crying, I decided to treat myself to a nice evening, so I am on a date with myself." Her smirk became a grin. Then she glanced over at Steve. "It was brilliant catching up with you. Bye." She gave the Disney princess wave then wiggled her fingers, and looked back at me and winked. "Nice dress." Then she laughed all the way off, and Steve gave a tiny laugh and then caught himself.
So Trisha hadn't just been flirting with him - or vice versa, or both - but it seemed like they'd had a bit of a laugh about my dress. And once again, I told myself I didn't care, but I sort of did and I was angry with myself for it.
Not as angry as I was with Steve, though.
"Can we go home?" I asked, even as my brain taunted me it's not a home, it's not your home anymore, everything is over.
Steve got serious again. "What about the rest of dinner? Or your dessert, or -"
"I told you I was unwell. I threw up just now."
"Thanks for sharing," Steve muttered.
That did it. I snapped, even though our voices would carry and this wasn't other people's business. The tears started again, and I hated myself for it, trying to keep it together but it wasn't working so well, and I heard my voice shake as I snarled, "Look. You asked, so you got an answer. Let's go home, or I'm taking myself and you can call a bloody cab. I am not feeling well, I want to go to bed. To sleep."
I would have just as soon walked to the car, but I didn't want to offend Judith and we needed to pay for the meal we didn't eat. As Steve handled our portion of the bill, I nervously explained to Judith that my stomach was upset. Judith looked concerned rather than angry, and she said, "I hope you'll still be able to make it to the wedding on Sunday!"
There was my out. If she thought I had stomach flu, I could get away with staying home and not be forced to endure the wedding ceremony and the reception on Sunday. I weighed my response, leaning towards yes.
And then my mother, holding a glass of sparkling cider, tittered and said, "Oh, don't let her get out of it so easily. Antonia always used to fake being sick before one of her beauty pageants. She has low self-esteem, you know, she thinks she looks ugly in a dress..."
I was not, as a rule, a violent person. But it took me every ounce of my restraint not to go over to my mother and backhand her. Not only had I not been faking illness before the beauty pageants, I really was sick from nerves - and she knew this because I got sick at one when she forced me to attend - but my discomfort with the dress had nothing to do with my bloody self-esteem, and I had never actually said I looked ugly in a dress. It wasn't that I felt ugly, it was that I felt I was in the wrong body... but I hadn't voiced that discomfort to her either, she just assumed based on my body language or facial cues that my distaste was based in low self-esteem.
And I still felt horrible after throwing up, which put all the emotions on an amplifier - I started crying again. "Mother. Mum. I'm not faking it. And I wasn't bloody faking it then either, and you fucking knew that..."
Suddenly, everyone looked at me as if I had just wished death on the Queen. My hand clapped over my mouth. Judith and Steve had both heard me swear before and didn't make much of it. But it was one thing in private and another thing in this situation, in front of a whole group of my peers. Steve's off-colour innuendo was pushing a line but still acceptable from a man at social gatherings, however people of my social class were not really allowed to swear in public, one of those unwritten societal obligations that I resented. And I had just now uttered not merely a "bloody", but also a "fuck".
My mother's eyes widened, then her brow furrowed and her nostrils flared. "Antonia Evangeline Elizabeth Hewlett-Johnson..."
I turned to Judith, pointedly trying to ignore my mother's reaction. My face was on fire and I really just wanted to bolt, but for Judith's sake I made myself stay there - as badly, desperately, as I wanted to take the out with my stomach, my mother's accusation had dashed that to pieces. "I don't feel well but I'll be there," I said, with a tight, fake smile. "You're very important to me."
"You don't have to..." Judith glanced over at my mother, then back at me.
I glared at my mother, letting her know with one look we were fucking done for the foreseeable future - I had given her enough second chances - and then I smiled again at Judith, gave her a quick hug, and said again, "I'll be there."
Then Steve took me home. I didn't look at him all the way there, I stared out the window at the rain. Stared into space, floating outside my body again, feeling lost and alone.
"Wow, Toni. Just... wow."
I stalked off, not looking at him. I stomped my way into the bedroom. I took off my jewellery, then I gathered a pair of black silk pyjamas and let myself into the bathroom - locking the door behind me so Steve didn't get the idea to join me. I turned on the shower and let the water heat up as I got out of my dress. I wanted to burn the dress, but right now I just needed to wash off the last few hours. Really, I wanted to scrub off my skin.
I don't know how long I was in the shower, but I let myself float again, needing the feel of the hot water pelting my skin while also not wanting to be reminded of my naked body. I breathed in the soap, played with bubbles, and let it rain and rain until the water went more lukewarm and I had prune fingers.
I towelled off, put on my pyjamas, and then I came out. Steve was also in his pyjamas, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking cross.
"Antonia, we need to talk."
"No, we don't." If we discussed the scene at the restaurant, I was likely to tell him I wanted a divorce and I didn't want to have this conversation right now. "I keep telling you, I don't feel well. Can we just relax? Please?"
"You were out of line," Steve said, glaring at me. He folded his arms. "You embarrassed me."
"Really?" And then I felt myself snap again. Yes, I wanted to avoid a confrontation but I wasn't going to let that slide. "But your 'Toni loves sausage and gets plenty of exercise hurr hurr hurr' joke was totally fine and not inappropriate at all -"
"Well no, because I wasn't the one acting like a histrionic drama queen."
"OK, that's it." I pointed at him, mind whirling, heart pounding. My hand shook. "Next time you don't feel well? Don't expect sympathy from me, don't expect me to take care of you, you can go cry to your mummy and let her coddle you like the little manchild you are." I didn't think I would be there for the next time, of course, but I wasn't going to tell him that. "If you think I'm a histrionic drama queen, it might be because you're an insensitive, selfish, self-centred prick."
I expected Steve to respond to that with another insult, but instead he got up from the bed and began walking towards me. I stepped back, heart hammering, feeling like I couldn't breathe, thinking he was going to hit me. He lunged and grabbed me and I let out a little frightened scream and tried to wrench free before he could attack me...
...and then he growled, "You're sexy when you're mad," and he kissed me.
I immediately shoved him away and took another few steps back, hearing myself breathing harder, shaky little gasps. Steve recoiled like I'd slapped him, even though I hadn't, and I felt myself shaking my head vehemently. "No," I said, hoping he would take the hint - fearing he wouldn't. "If you think makeup sex is going to fix this, it won't."
Steve scowled at me, and I scowled back. Then he spat, "You had better adjust your attitude or I can find somebody else, you know." He gave me an evil grin and said, "Maybe I'll ring Trisha."
"Please do," I said, "because I'd rather throw up again than touch your puny little dick."
Steve's dick wasn't huge but it wasn't small, and yet I knew I hit a nerve, and I wasn't sorry. I turned around and began walking out of the bedroom, not really knowing where I was going, and Steve yelled, "Bitch," after me before he slammed the bedroom door.
So now I knew where I was going - I was sleeping on the couch tonight, since I hadn't had the foresight to pack an overnight bag for a hotel.
And as much as I was relieved to be sleeping alone - I didn't want to breathe the same air in the same room as him, never mind have him next to me in bed - I still ached to be held, to be touched. After mindlessly zoning out to television for a few hours I let myself go to my happy place with gay Jon Snow and a bunch of purring cats in a cottage in a coastal town, but wanting that escape so badly just made me even sadder and I cried myself to sleep.
Again. It felt like my whole life was tears unnumbered.
I woke up shortly after 2 AM with a start, in a cold sweat, heart pounding again. I'd had a nightmare that I'd attended the wedding and had been forced to walk around naked and somehow Trisha was there and Steve was trying to get me to have a threesome and I threw up on his dick.
I sat up and looked around, disoriented for a moment, and realised I was on the couch. My entire body hurt from sleeping there, made worse by being so tense.
I tried to take some deep breaths and pull myself together but I still felt shaken. I absolutely did not want to go through with attending the wedding on Sunday. I was tempted to ring Judith now, at this ungodly hour, and tell her, then pack a bag and fuck off to Brighton for a few days while I filed divorce papers and laid low.
I felt like a coward.
I needed tea. That usually helped. I went to the kitchen and turned the lights on and began rummaging around, trying to keep it down even though Steve didn't deserve that courtesy.
And then, as I watched the tea, my mind's eye replayed the whole horrible scene of the rehearsal dinner. How humiliated I was, first feeling like such an outsider among Judith's friends, then Steve's crass remark, then getting sick in the bathroom and coming out to see Trisha obviously flirting with him. I kept telling myself I don't care, I don't care, she can bloody have him, I don't want him anymore, but the rage boiled and boiled and boiled and suddenly, not thinking, only feeling, I found myself opening up the knife drawer, taking out one of the big cutting knives, and slashing my right arm.
I hadn't cut since I was a bullied teenager, even though I'd had self-harm urges since then during stress. I had gone this long by telling myself this was letting the bastards win.
The bastards had won. This entire bastard world had won. I watched the blood flow down my arm and drip onto the marble countertop and I felt myself floating outside of my body again, felt the room spinning. My arm stung with the fresh wound and I let it bleed as if it were somehow purging the psychic poison from my system.
When the tea was ready, I fixed my cup the way I take it as if I hadn't just cut myself and wasn't bleeding all over the place, then I watched blood drip onto the floor.
Oh shit, I'm going to have to clean that. And cleaning was always my job, for some reason. [Spoiler: that reason was because I have a vagina.]
I came back to myself just slightly. I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen first, then I saw to putting some antibiotic cream and a bandage on my arm, and then I sat in the living room with my tea, and it wasn't until I'd finished my cup that I had my second oh shit moment: if I went to the wedding on Sunday, my dress was sleeveless, and I had this long gash on my arm, currently covered by a bandage.
I was either going to have to skip the wedding, or go out shopping and hope there was a matching pair of peacock-coloured long gloves in a store, since I didn't think I could order a pair online and have it shipped in time for Sunday; it was early Saturday.
I put my cup down on the saucer, buried my face in my hands, and exhaled. "Great," I muttered. "Just fucking great. Good going, Toni."
My stomach growled - I had barely eaten yesterday. I took my cup to the kitchen, made a second cup of tea, and then I decided I would eat something light since my stomach had acted up, so I put some water biscuits on a plate and cut slices of cheese. The missing cheese would also serve as an alibi for why I had a knife injury, because I didn't want to tell Steve I'd cut myself and I knew he would notice the wound.
Once my snack was finished, I wandered over to my book collection and picked out the uncensored version of The Picture Of Dorian Grey. Eventually, this proved to be a mistake, as I got to the passage of
It is quite true I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man should ever give to a friend. Somehow I have never loved a woman... From the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me... I adored you madly, extravagantly, absurdly. I was jealous of everyone to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you.
Once again, I felt that craving to be with a man... as a man. Not as a woman, but to enjoy "the love that dare not speak its name", the beauty in the symmetry and contrasts of loving one's own gender. Brothers, companions, adventuring the world together. A passion, an ecstasy, that was holy fire bordering on supernatural, that religions had declared "unnatural" in fear because deep down they knew it was the truest kind of love of all.
I ached for that into my bones, into my soul. I thought about cutting my arm again but that wouldn't solve or change anything.
I closed the book, put it back on the shelf - I didn't need Steve's shit about reading "that gay stuff" again - and I turned on the television, turned off the lights, and curled up on the couch with the blanket over me. Once again, I felt that sweet disconnect between mind and body - like being freed from prison - and then the world just seemed to slip away as I let my mind go too.
I ended up falling back asleep, and woke up to the sound of Steve walking through the living room, the bright light of the morning sun searing my eyes. I jumped when I saw Steve - he hadn't hit me last night, but I realised I was afraid of him now; I'd handled enough clients who were victims of domestic violence to know that when men knew something was "off" and saw the writing on the wall that it was over, they not-infrequently escalated verbal abuse and neglect and toxic behaviours, to violence, if it wasn't already present. My body froze and my heart started pounding again.
"Hey," Steve said, his voice husky from sleep.
"...Hi."
Steve stood there for a long moment and we just looked at each other, and while I was still wary, I felt myself relax ever so slightly; he didn't look like he was gearing up for another row.
Steve's shoulders heaved with a deep sigh. He scratched his head and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry for what I said last night."
"Yeah. Me too." I wasn't actually, especially not when I made fun of his dick, but I wanted to get through the next few days without an incident.
"You uh... want breakfast? I can make an omelette or something?"
I felt nauseated again, but I nodded. Water biscuits with cheese wasn't really a meal, and Steve wasn't crap at making eggs.
Steve cooked and once everything was ready, he brought it out. To my relief, he didn't attempt to sit next to me on the couch, but he took the armchair. We spent a few minutes eating in silence and then he noticed my arm. "What happened there?"
"Oh, you know." I gave a nervous laugh. "I woke up in the middle of the night and needed to eat a little something to settle my stomach so I put together water biscuits and cheese but when I was slicing the cheese, I wasn't awake enough." I looked at my arm with the bandage on it, and then off to the side, hoping he didn't catch that I was lying. "I need to buy gloves, I think."
"So you are attending the wedding."
"Yes, Steve, I am. To be honest, I don't want to, but I feel obligated to, especially after what my mum said."
Steve nodded. "Just making sure. If you need to stay home, I can cover for you -"
In years past I would have accepted his contriteness and cooperation at face value but now something seemed suspicious about it, and I wondered if he too had come to the conclusion we weren't right for each other and he was also planning divorce. Whether this was true or not, I shook my head - I still absolutely did not want to go to that bloody wedding, but I knew I would effectively be burning bridges with my favourite cousin if I declined. "I have to do this, but thank you."
"OK." Then Steve put his plate down and took a deep breath. I braced myself, preparing for him to tell me it wasn't working out. But instead he said, "I have to wonder if everything just feels too much at once for you because, well..." His voice trailed off and he looked away and squirmed in his seat, as if he'd said something he shouldn't.
"Because what?" I felt myself bristling with annoyance.
Steve squared his shoulders. He didn't meet my eyes as he spelled it out. "Your hormones. You're on the rag now, right?"
I narrowed my eyes. It was OK if I called it that but it irritated me that he was using that term. Then again, he could have said "menstruating" and I would have been exasperated by the fact that he existed; I was starting to loathe every stupid word out of his stupid mouth. "Almost."
"Yeah. It's PMS." Steve chuckled, picked up his plate, and resumed shoveling food into his mouth.
That infuriated me, to have everything dismissed like that, as if me feeling like an outsider and being humiliated last night had to do with my hormones. I didn't argue with him, but I reflected as I continued eating my cheesy eggs. Judith and I had discussed menstrual cycles when she'd planned the wedding - we both usually had clockwork cycles and we were trying to avoid a date when either she or I would be menstruating, since we were both prone to heavy flows and miserable cramping and accidents. I was supposed to have been done and over with my cycle by now, and I was almost a fortnight late. This wasn't new, I'd been a week to ten days late for my period before when life was more stressful than usual. But it did mean I was expecting it any day now, and I had a sinking feeling it was going to hit during the wedding, because that was my shitty fucking luck.
I almost retched on the eggs as I thought about bleeding through the bridesmaid dress, but that would still be less embarrassing than yesterday. I wanted the wedding to be over and done, and my period to hurry up and get here, even if it was at the wedding, so that unpleasantness could be over and done as well.
Then Steve and I could be over and done. Because I couldn't take it anymore.
chapter 4 | return to A Place Called Home | return to Original Works | return to index
