Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • I pulled off the road in Brunswick, at a gas station or a restaurant, I don’t know. You said the word as I stared at bricks, the car idling in a parking spot. We thought this might be the case. We knew the risks. Ninety-nine percent effective still means one out of every one hundred times, you fail.

    We would soon be part of the third of all Americans that get abortions. I’m told it’s a third, but I’ve never checked on that. It’s always a third with these things.

    I would sit in the waiting room with a book while you had it done. I would fuck up my chance to be supportive when you needed it most. You cried as we paid and left. You cried in the car.

    “I don’t get that one to do over again, do I,” I said. You said that I did not.

    But that was later. Right now, you just told me that you tested twice. We discussed our options, which was really just one option.

    I asked if I should turn around and come home. You said no. That there was nothing to be done over the next few days anyway. We probably apologized to each other and said, “I love you.”

    I was heading to Cushing, further north along the coast, for a weekend with family that would, in time, disintegrate. I don’t think there was a burial this time. There usually is.

    There was no reception at my cousin’s cottage on the wharf, so you and I didn’t talk for two days. I drank a lot, checked my cell phone compulsively, smiled when I had to, and with great zeal, I cursed all the gods in which I did not believe.
  • Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.