She clicks a button to order them now, three rectangular packages delivered straight to the silver mailbox posted on her fence. She reaches her hand in thinking of spiders, but mostly the convenience of it all. Maybe that will make the decision for her.

She remembers the cramps, the pain so intense she thought death would be easier. The second time she hid in a darkened room, curled up in bed all day, writing a resume for a new job. But, like everything else, it didn’t come to fruition.

The first time she held her breath and waited, armed with a militia of young adult novels from the library down the street. She stood in the sun on their tiny balcony and swallowed pills,  words for water.

She rustles the plastic covering and eyes the black pouch inside. The second time the cramps had been unexpected, giant tsunamis of pain that crippled her legs, brought her to a crumble in the center of their red rug. The voices on the TV blared on, and he brought her a blanket. She disappeared under it, closed her eyes to the waves, the only comforting thoughts of deep, deep tunnel black and nothingness.

The plastic pops open, and she places the other two packets in her cubby to be used months later. She glances behind her, the accordion blinds emitting a sliver of gray light. There are sidewalks to run now, a dinner to make, and no time for distant memories.


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