Page 214 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

First day of the Fuckening.

Always punctual, never polite.

It’s five a.m. Still dark.

I’m on the pantry floor,

the Fuckening basket at my feet,

digging out the bottle of noir,

scanning the labels one by one.

AirPods in, volume high, my period playlist blasts “Red Red Wine.”

Then a cramp fists through,

and suddenly⁠—

I’m horizontal,

clutching my survival kit to my chest.

Wine, chocolate, heating pad, ibuprofen.

The four horsemen of menstruation.

A shadow creeps across the marble path through the kitchen. Ben—bedhead pointing north, gym shorts sagging south.

He’s a zombie walking toward the fridge, half-asleep. Then his eyes drop, and he spots me on the floor,

a creepy The Ring girl in the dark corner.

His body jerks back, a six-foot-two man

lifting high off the ground.

His scream rips out, pure horror⁠—

the kind right before the chainsaw revs.

But I only see the shape of it on his mouth as he bounces off the drywall, the sound drowned out by the wine-soaked reggae slurring in my ears, palm trees rocking while his face melts into terror.

He rights himself fast, mouth going a mile a minute, boxer hands beating the air faster than his Brooklyn tongue can keep up.

He’s still silent to me.

All I hear is Red Red Wine sludging,

like my bloodstream’s half merlot.

Another cramp hits, and I keel over,

groaning and crawling toward him.

Ben jumps back.

“Yo, bro—nah, get up. Get the fuck. Up.