You’ve just done the thing last night. He’s out back now, on your grass, in the back yard, getting high. You have known him eight hours.
You are always scared of your own womb, aren’t you? How long has it been? Six months.
This one is taller than the others; you could climb him to reach something that is far away or high up.
What would you need to reach? A watery leak in the ceiling or to kill a fly. You would plug the leak with your finger or swat the fly with a fly swatter, your calves at his cheeks, toes on his collarbone.
You think of the pattern of his chest hair, which was a squat upside down triangle, something unique but not marketable. Would a man like this sit next to you on a beach one day? Would you be happy about the triangle then, against a backdrop of sand and other chest hair options?
What was your next move? Put on the scarf and the big glasses and walk slowly down the block to the Pharmacy like always? Aren’t you endlessly walking down a sidewalk to a Pharmacy?
When you get there, you will only swallow pills. After you swallow, your womb will be clean, coated in white paper, flawlessly empty.
Without the pills, you spend days praying for black birds to come and peck at your midsection, to remove with their beaks what does not belong.
Ideally, the birds would peck out your womb stuff while you were standing on his shoulders, reaching for the fly or the leak, solve two problems at once.
The beaks would slide into your skin and dig out red treasures while your finger held the water or the swatter bashed the fly.
Ideally, you would climb down from him and there would be no need for a Pharmacy or a ladder, not ever again and wasn’t that what love was?