Chloe
Men have no clue.
Me
We try.
Chloe
Poorly.
Me
I feel like I’ve arrived halfway throughsomething.
Chloe
I am on my period. I am in pain. I am grumpy. I am not meant for public consumption today.
I stare at the message as soon as it sends, heat creeping up my neck on her behalf.
That explains the ellipses. The sharp edges. The sudden retreat into humour like it’s armour.
I call her before this turns into a thread of increasingly baffling messages.
“What,” she barks.
“I just wanted to check,” I say, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice, “whether Peri Peri chicken comes with a warning label or if this is more of a verbal advisory situation.”
“Oh god,” she groans. “Why did you call?”
“Because that last message deserved a human voice.”
“I overshared.”
“A bit.”
“I am embarrassed.”
“I’m not alarmed,” I say, gently now. “If that helps.”
“I liked that you liked the article,” she rushes out. “And I shouldn’t have said any of that. This is why I don’t talk to people when I’m hormonal. Perimenopause is real, turning a normal period into a life event and nobody needs to hear about this. Argh, and now I am oversharing again. Forget my number! It’s safer.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a full minute after the call ends.
Forget my number. It’s safer.
That lands somewhere between brutally direct and disarming. Mostly disarming.
I don’t text immediately. That feels wrong. Like crowding someone who has very clearly retreated under a duvet made of dignity and hormones.
I make another cuppa. I stand at the window. I consider Rupert’s inevitable commentary and reject it.
Then, carefully, I type.
Me
