A little piece of plastic, a thin strip of resin coated with chemicals. Quite nondescript, really. It could double as a tongue depressor. Not that you would want to put in your mouth. Not that you would want to pull it off the shelf in the first place. Such an innocuous slip of nothing with the power to change a person’s world in two short minutes.
The timer on the windowsill is really loud. Why did I put it there again? It would have been easier to use my phone. I could have set an alarm and then gone to let the dog out. Hung the load of wash that’s been sitting since morning. Picked up the mail. I mean, well, I could have used my phone but I didn’t. The timer kept in the back of the kitchen cupboard seemed more appropriate. The steady tick as it counts down from 120 is weirdly comforting. As if someone is sitting in the room with me. Waiting as impatiently—fearfully—as I am.
Tick, a hand in mine. Tick: two fingers brushing a stray lock of hair off my forehead.
Tick: a warm palm patting my back.
Tick, tick, tick: It’s, Oh, Kay.
I stand in front of the window letting the sunlight bath my face through the glass. It is warmer, finally. Spring has arrived in defiance of a persistent nip from the north. A month ago this same glass would have radiated cold. Made me shiver whenever I stepped out of the shower. Now I can almost smell the lilacs just starting to bud in the yard below. The thin skin of my eyelids is rived with tiny blood vessels glowing crimson against a cherry backdrop. I focus on those vessels. Try to follow them without moving my pupils, without cracking my eyelids. The heat and the steady ticking lull me. A jagged sigh escapes my pursed lips. The plastic strip is sitting behind me in the shadow of a flower vase. Almost but not quite hidden from view should I choose to look.
I don’t.
I lean on the windowsill and touch my flushed cheeks to the glass. I breathe out and feel the damp condensation expand from my lips. My respirations syncs unconsciously with the timer. Inhale, tick. Exhale, tick. Inhale, tick. Exhale,
DING!
No! I’m not ready! How can a little piece of plastic dictate my destiny? This isn’t right. This isn’t fair. This is just...stupid! I was stupid. A little whiskey, a little wine, a little jazz, a little dine. I am smarter than that. Well, at least I thought I was. A little lust and no fuss. Condoms? What are those? What do you mean expired??? No! I’m not ready! But DING!
The breath rattles in my throat. I clutch the sill and shake my head against a dark, dizzying wave of nausea.
DING!
It’s not the sound everyone says you’ll hear. It’s anticlimactic. A little like the act itself when your partner rolls over like a bloated corpse and burps. No fireworks or sparklers. No cheers or luxuriant shudders. Just burp and DING! Followed by a little strip of plastic lying on a shelf. My only companion the cryptic silence of an empty and oddly expectant house. There is no point of waiting any longer. No point in regrets over out of date prophylactics and one too many shots of Black Velvet.
I turn from the window and open my eyes. Cast a quick glance at the timer sitting in silent anticipation on the windowsill. Thanks, I think...for keeping me company. A deep breath and I reach out. Snag the strip from the shadows.
Ready, set, DING!
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