Xantera

por Mariah Montoya & Grace Pearce

Alone now, I scoop my hair into a messy bun and tie it in a knot before checking the outline of my reflection in the fading screen to readjust my own scarlet badge—a marker of my place in life right now. Every new couple wears one in public, an indication of the honeymoon stage. In three years, we’ll get new green badges to specify that we’re in the family-making stage. That we sleep together more than just on Sunday. Now, I open the middle cabinet drawer next to our screen and grab the tiny blue pill that keeps my womb empty. I’ve heard so many women in my age group complain about the medication, but me? My mother must have dropped me on the head as an infant and failed to report it to the Guardians, because I only ever feel a surge of relief when I pop this pill into my mouth. Maybe it’s selfish of me to like the way my body feels as is, to dread those upcoming family-making years, but… I shake my head. And I definitely shouldn’t be analyzing the shape of my body in the glossy darkness of the screen, wondering why Malcolm doesn’t seem as interested in me or my appearance as I secretly crave he would be.

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