Too much, too little
August 22, 2017 - 10:20 p.m.

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The x-ray tech kneels at my feet. Gold gladiator sandals, iridescent red toenails.

She feels the muscles of my hips through the overwashed blue hospital gown.

She frowns.

"I have a bad hip," I tell her. "It made some of the muscles develop unevenly."

"Yeah," she agrees, digging her thumbs in, double checking, triple checking.

Finally, she steps behind the protective barrier.

"Big breath in and hold it," she says.

~

"Hey, Rosie, who's your favourite female comedian?"

"Oh, I dunno. S@arah Silv3rman, maybe. Or T1na F3ey. I like the political humour."

"You know it's funny, when ever I ask a woman that, they always rattle off like six female comedians. Me, I don't know, like, any? Like, I don't find women that funny. Nothing against women. I just don't find them funny, yea?"

"..."

~

The office is barely better than industrial. The walls are chalk yellow, and the carpet is short and grey, easy clean.

I shake the propmaster's hand, a man somewhere north of fifty, with a pointed chin and sandy greying hair. He introduces me to his assistant propmaster (Mike? Mark?), who unfolds himself from behind a too-small desk to give my hand a firm shake.

"Take a seat. Tell me, what are you looking for? What do you want from us?"

The question confuses me. I'm not delicate when I'm anxious and put on the spot. I frown with a certain degree of worry.

"I want to make things, and I want you to pay me for it?" I say. Isn't that why we're here?

Mark/Mike roars with laughter and slaps his knee. The propmaster chuckles.

"Well, that's a good answer."

~

The lab is becoming too familiar.

The technician natters away, telling me about a film they filmed in her house, once, and I stare at the opposite wall.

"Here, hold this." She guides my fingers to the cotton ball covering the pin hole in my arm.

A glance at the table reveals three -- four? -- vials of blood.

What will they reveal?

Maybe nothing.

She puts a band aid on my arm.

"I'm going to give you some sample containers to take home," she says, pulling out a paper bag so plain you know something embarrassing is inside.

"There's really no good way to do this sample. It's not going to be fun."

Fun. Ha.

~

"How do you feel about people working under you?"

They both look at me, faces yellow in the terrible office lighting.

"Fine, so long as they're not idiots," I say. I have terrible filters when I'm anxious.

Mike/Mark laughs, throwing his head back, and I decide I like him.

I get the job.

~

I lay awake in the sticky night, pressing my hands against my distended belly.

I feel like a balloon, over full. The prick of a pin and I will pop.

Nothing has moved in days.

I ate a few spoonfuls of yogurt instead of dinner, and that feels like too much.

Something's gotta give. Something's gotta give.

My phone reminds me of my upcoming ultrasound. It ticks down the days like a bomb.

Hopefully I won't explode first.

.

Rosie.

Before&After