22 /CRIMSON & CLOVER
TOMMY JAMES & THE SHONDELLS
// NOV 13, 7:05 AM - PENTHOUSE - UPPER EAST SIDE, NYC //
The Fuckening is here.
She’s never late,
staying for three days, maybe four.
No week-long trickle.
No spotting drama.
Only war.
I trained for this.
My body’s a machine gun now.
Bleed. Burn. Bail.
My stomach cramps like it’s grieving.
My uterus is painting the toilet bowl red.
“Alright, girl. Get it all out,” I mutter, hands bracing against the wall through the next cramp.
“Purge it. Take the lining and all the lies.”
This timing’s poetic.
I told Andrew I needed a few days to think,
that I wasn’t ready to send him the Baby Contract.
I told him I was overwhelmed, heated,
on edge, confused, emotionally flammable.
Now I’m ninety percent sure it was PMS,
my hormones murdering me from the inside out.
Last night, I couldn’t leave him half-blind in the courtyard without his glasses, so I called him a car.
He bitched the whole time?—
“I got it, Allison. I’m not fuckin’ helpless.”
I tapped through the app, ignoring him.
Then waved goodbye.
No kiss, no hug. Like a virgin.
He waited with Mickey, the two ranting aboutJersey-born,I-do-it-myselfpride.
