The doctor told her she should take her ovaries out soon, shuck one out and then the other. The opal time bombs rattled in her belly. Over them, she cupped her hands. Okay, she nodded. They’ve done their service, now it’s time to scram.
But every month came and went and she did nothing. She’d gotten used to the cycles the time bombs summoned, arriving periods like water lapping up the shore. I don’t want to, she shook her head. I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of things.
One day, the ovaries barked to be let out. So loud, she said, covering her ears. Fine. But first, a party. A send-off for the final bleed.
She invited all the men who’d ever looked at her. She put on her prettiest dress, the one she wore in seventh grade that made her look like she’d swallowed light. The shiny skirt of it still sparkled like the sea in sun. The bodice bound her breasts, made a game of breath.
The invitations said: don’t be late.
When the men showed up, they laughed, even the mean ones, even the ones that had made her cross the street, feel less fragile on the other side. She curtsied. Thanks, she said. And/or: fuck you. She turned away, had the thought to dance alone.
When her blood poured a path across the dance floor, they followed her like dogs.
