Red, red wine

I just found myself sitting on the bathroom floor, red wine and a pregnancy test in hand. Counting to one hundred eighty. I got to sixty and then I think skipped to 71. Stopped. Reassessed. Knew I should have brought some kind of timer. 67 68 69 707172734567. Tried not to touch it. Re-read the instructions. Worried I didn't do it correctly. Worried I missed a step. The step that would tell me that it's true, it's true. It was all a big mistake, meeting him, knowing him, knowing it was never going to work and still knowing him. The most ironic of all things. The most evil irony.

And trying not to think about those three minutes, trying not to worry, trying not to think about how I'd broach the subject or what I would do or how things would pan out. Thinking how red wine would see me through this, red wine would make it all okay.

And I write pretty words (or I tell myself I do). I write and try to be relateable and try to be funny and want to tell you things, things that are real and truthful and honest, but really, there's still sugar coating. This moment? This moment is terrifying. This moment could be the worst of my entire life, and no one would really know that, not from the red wine talk. The red wine doesn't tell about how I looked, sitting on the bathroom floor, resolving to do this, resolving to know, to know, resolving to sit next to this bottle, look at it, know that I need it, know that I need it to deal with whatever this three minutes brings. That pink line. That's what I'm looking for. And staring at it, 129 seconds in, I'm wondering if I'm a monster. Wondering if I really am getting what I deserve. Wondering if I'm out of control. Wondering if this red wine is my only friend. The only one to see me through the next 51 seconds.

The pink line didn't appear. But the red wine? Oh, its still here.