by Fiona McKay
Her breasts are the first to disappear. Such a strange sensation, the wind cutting through her where the flesh had curved out over her meaty ribs, where blood had flowed through deep blue veins, and now there is nothing. Whenever she next has sex with Brad, when she straddles him and he runs his hands up her ribcage, will he be surprised when he meets the empty air instead of her double-d’s? Will his hands pass through her? Will he notice?
Her clothes fit the same, or mostly the same. There is some shifting and changing of the flesh that has always been held in readiness in case of emergency baby-making. No longer a requirement, some of the safety net has melted from her thighs, made its way stubbornly to her belly, where no-one needs it. Unlike her breasts, her belly is now more visible, if only to her. Brad sees no difference after all the years, and when she pinches the loose fabric of her favourite jeans that used to hug her hips, now bite her waist instead, he says ‘Very nice, honey, you look lovely,’ without looking up from his phone.
In the morning rush, there’s something different. Even with the overnight aches in her bones, she moves differently, lightly, unencumbered. Before, it was like each glance, each stare, snagged on her like a rope, pulling her back, dragging from her as she walked busy pavements; a thing for her gather in before attempting to board a train, her arms full of knotted hemp, the weight of it as she made her way to the office. Thinks she hears a call of ‘Hey, darlin’,’ but it’s not aimed at her, so she doesn’t have to cringe, shiver into herself. Instead, anger blooms in her for the young woman scurrying past, laden with ropes. She steps up with a ‘Hey!’ but the guy walks straight into her, doesn’t apologise.
At work, Gary from Corporate doesn’t stare as she leans across the table to hand out copies of this month’s target figures. When she takes her seat again, she realises that the firm peach of her ass is gone, vanished, kaput – like a page ripped out of a magazine. She still has something to sit on, but whatever it is, Gary isn’t looking at it. ‘Good work, can you head up the team?’ he says after her presentation. Looking her in the eye, like she’s one of the guys.
In the bathroom after lunch, one of the younger analysts calls out from the stall, ‘Hey, does anyone out there have a tampon or a pad? Damn period airdropped early,’ and when she roots through her bag to find a pad or a tampon, she has none to offer, and it’s been so long since she has needed one. So long. How long, exactly? Has she missed it? On her phone, the app blooms open to tell her Your period is 365 days late, asks her how she feels today, and the answer is surprised, and a little sad, and delighted, and relieved.
Later, after Brad has made dinner – his signature bloody steak – to celebrate: ‘You got the contract, I’m so proud of you,’ they fuck even though it’s midweek. He kisses her breasts with intention, runs his hands over her, lingers on her curves, her belly. And when the time comes when one or other of them would normally reach for a condom, she says, ‘We don’t need those anymore.’ And when he says, ‘Really? You’re really done? Do you feel okay about that?’ she says, ‘I do.’
Fiona McKay is the author of the novellas-in-flash, The Lives of the Dead and The Top Road, and the collection Drawn and Quartered. Her flash fiction is in The Forge, Gone Lawn, Ghost Parachute, trampset, Peatsmoke, Fractured Lit and others. She lives in Dublin.
Photo by Art Institute of Chicago on Unsplash
