My period was a week late or so.
I don't remember who I was fucking at the time.
I don't remember quite what bullshit excuse I used to get the afternoon off from work.
I remember that the lady at Planned Parenthood asked me, before we even got to the pregnancy test, what I would do if it came out positive.
I remember the force I had to put into my voice to hide the shake as I said, "There's no way I'm having this baby."
I remember looking at some kind of wheel to figure out how far along I would be, if I were pregnant, and her explaining that the Morgentaler clinic would do abortions starting at six weeks, and I remember the anger and the horror and horrible cold thing that gripped my stomach as I did the math and realized that this thing would be staying inside me for several weeks before anybody would be able to help me.
The test came up negative.
I remember walking home across the High Level Bridge, feeling the summer sun and breeze against my skin, against the body that was mine and mine only.
I wonder now, what that walk would have been like if there had been two lines.
I wonder about my sisters to the south.
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