The AC is broken in this apartment, and even though it’s only spring I’m already feeling like a puddle of lipstick and floral print on the floor. The window beside me is open, overlooking the backyard, overgrown grass and weeds covering people’s ankles. I’ve had too many drinks already and the sun hasn’t even set and I’m thinking about how you haven’t called even though it’s been three weeks.
Looking out the window I catch a glimpse of you, covered by the crowd around you. I feel faint from the heat but also just from looking at you. You laugh at something someone beside you says, carefree. I notice you’re smoking a cigarette but walking on crutches. I had heard you got into a fight. I go outside, hug you as you try to hold your balance all on your right leg. One arm reaches around me, pushing me gently to your chest.
You say to me then in a whisper, I wanted to see that you’re all right.
I tell you, Yes, I’m fine.
But I don’t let go of the hug and neither do you. I’m watching birds flying over our heads in a v-shape and I think of the day you didn’t hug me, the day you drove me to the clinic in the freezing rain. How could rain be freezing in Florida? You said it was hard to see the nurse hand me a prescription for Lortab. And now we both know how you took them from me in the night while I rested. You waited in the lobby that was covered in heart-shaped handwritten letters from other women who had been there too. You looked different then in your preppy clean clothes, always smelling of perfectly washed laundry, nothing like the man standing in the yard today.
You are handsome, but limping and bruised. And I am weak and ruined. My body doesn’t feel like my own anymore. With no baby inside it, I don’t know whose body it should be.