Sad days ought to be overcast.
Today is clear blue.
I chew plain toast and nurse a mug of milky coffee. My stomach rises as I swallow. I breathe deeply. I’m uncertain if it’s nausea or nerves for today’s appointment. I’m relieved my phone has no missed calls.
I choose to wear a greyish cerulean linen dress. It hangs on me like a sack but it’s the nearest colour I have to today’s sky. I opt for simple black mary-janes as I’ll be asked to take off my shoes at the appointment.
I check my phone. I suspected he’d call at the last minute, but he surprises me when he arrives on time. He refuses to come in, “is that what you’re wearing?” is how he says ‘hello’.
“Get in the car. Let’s go,” he tells me.
I grab my handbag. I fumble the shades. I need to lock the front door before I follow. He walks ahead of me and acts annoyed I’m taking so long. I sit in the front passenger side of the car. He drives with calm purpose. I don’t want to make it worse, but I already have.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me?” he asks. I hesitate.
“I don’t know what to say?” I admit. “Did the Tigers win?” I ask.
“No,” is the sullen reply. I wait for more.
“Is work okay?” I ask.
It’s silent again, so I gently try, “what do you want to talk about?”
He tsks with his tongue, “I couldn’t go to work,” is his strained reply. Like, I should already know this.
“Okay,” I breathe. I let the silence return before offering, “do you want the radio on?”
“No,” another sullen reply.
“I don’t want to fight,” I say.
“Whose fighting?” he snaps, “I’m not fighting I’m trying to have a conversation with you.”
I don’t say a thing. I don’t know what to say.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you but you won’t listen!” he accuses me. His breathing is rapid. I
know he’s gathering up the nerve to shout. I’m resentfully silent. He continues, “you need to listen!”
I’d like to be a grey rock.
“Well?” he demands.
“I’m listening,” I say.
“You fuck!” his tone drops. He doesn’t want to be the only one shouting. He is taking every correct road and every correct turn. We’ll arrive soon. All I can be is the passenger. He could choose to drive somewhere else and make me miss my appointment.
“This is so hard on me,” he confesses, “it’s hard doing the responsible thing.”
“You can pull over,” I say. I bite inside my cheek.
“Pull over?” he’s confused.
“To let me out so y-”
“I’ve no choice but to take you!"
He could choose to stop the car and force me to walk there, then admit I had no one to pick me up.
“You offered -” I began
“Because I have to take the responsibility. Don’t you have any goddamn feelings about that?” he demands.
For a moment I’m the confused one, “What do you want me to feel?”
“You’re not even crying” he accuses me.
“Are you trying to make me cry?”
“I shouldn’t have to try to make you cry,” he says.
“I’m sad,” I reply in monotone. I sound like a liar to myself.
“You need to take responsibility, too” he says. My chest aches and my eyes feel like sandpaper. I look sidelong at him and feel I have to do this. We sit in silence until he parks the car.
“You can choose -” he starts but I’m already out of the car with my bag. He follows at my heels and begs my name for everyone to hear. He calls out like a cow separated from its calf, “don’t kill my baby. Don’t kill my baby.”
Security passes me as I walk in. A woman behind the front desk waves me, “come straight inside,” she says and I am ushered directly past check-in into a basic examination room. For awhile I could vaguely hear him arguing. I imagine they need to threaten to call the police, but he'll act like he leaves on his own terms.
The front-desk woman returns with a clip-board and pen, and says kindly, “he’s gone but it’s best you stay in here, just in case.”
The woman takes my appointment details and leaves. I take a seat where the doctor sits and fill out the papers. The questionnaire asks – for the purposes of a survey – the reasons why. I can say ‘just because…’ if I wanted to lie. No one has the legal right to ask me.
Because I can’t look after myself. Because I can’t always get him to wear a condom. Because guys say they love me. Because I can’t afford my own place. Because I fuck around. Because the Pill doesn’t always work. Because I fucked a forty-year-old child. Because God, or Satan, willed it.
Because when my mother was pregnant with me everyone told her it was best to end it. So, she made the appointment and she sat and waited. She felt everyone despised her. And she wanted someone to love her, so she impulsively walks out of the clinic. And I fucking hate her for it.
I leave the reasons blank.
When mum came to pick me up, she didn’t like it, but I was glad to see the sky was overcast.