It’s a clean and modern space,I observe .Fitting for a medical centre. Magazines from three years ago line the shelves,haphazardly placed and annoyingly,not in an alphabetical or by date.I’ve been waiting for an appointment that was supposed to begin 10 minutes ago to the dot.There is no sense of order here  but at least it is clean. A still full hand sanitizer sits by the children’s play area right in the centre of the room. A chirpy lady beckons me over .

She goes through the questions somewhat too cheerfully.Must be new,I guess by the overly tight bun and immaculately applied but retail nonetheless, makeup. If you can call it that.

“Are you pregnant or could there be any chance that you might be pregnant?”

I am taken aback by this particular question.I find it insensitive but I suppose,necessary. It’s not her fault,I remind myself.

“No.” I answer after an awkward minute of her staring at me like I’m an idiot who can’t understand English.

Medical checkup done,I browse aimlessly in Myers occasionally greeting the staff who are on first name basis with me after all this time. I wonder what goes on in their heads as they look at me.

Glamorous,young, brand whore trophy wife.Always alone,always.

At the ladies toilets, a bewildered woman  with a stroller almost knocks me over on her way out. “Sorry” she mutters more to her baby than to me it seems. I catch a glimpse of the baby and marvel at the chubby cheeks,large inquiring blue eyes and a pink satin bow adorning what looks to be the beginnings of a brown mane matching the curls of  those on the head and shoulders of the lady pushing the stroller.

“She’s beautiful” I muse. You lucky unkept bitch.

She offers “Thanks.She’s also being good today,which is unusual”

I watch them leave until they turn the corner and out of my view.

 

I walk into the house resolute.I’m going to make the two of us a beautiful dish and then I’ll casually bring up the topic of trying again for a child.Either that,or I’ll ply him with enough alcohol and get it over and done with,which would probably take less effort.

I see the bouquet of yellow orchids and white lilies on the counter top. A note sits next to it,my name in handwriting so fancy I know it wasn’t personally written by my husband .

“Sorry, won’t be back until next Friday.Love, C.M. ”

Defeated,I reach for a red wine bottle.The first of many drinks for tonight.

 

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