This is, obviously, fiction. If it wasn’t, my blog would be a WHOLE lot more interesting.
There’s a part of me (the wuss part) that sometimes thinks about what would happen if my assistant hadn’t caught the flu from her boyfriend, who caught it from his roommate, just back from Paris, who caught it from some random girl that he made out with in front of the Eiffel Tower.
(So really, this is all France’s fault. Though France gave us Louboutin and Champagne so really, France has a free pass from here to eternity.)
I distinctly remember why I didn’t call him first, before bursting into the apartment. I was carrying my huge bag and, despite the plethora of easily accessible pockets, my phone was all the way at the bottom and it was cold and my hands were too busy alternating tissues up to my nose.
Had I called, he would’ve ushered her out before I arrived and he would’ve gone out to get me my favorite chicken soup from the sketchy deli downstairs and then he would’ve rubbed my head and put on HGTV and said, “feel better, Bug.”
And then life would’ve…continued. Instead of, you know, grinding to a screeching halt in a vision of exposed flesh, a rumpled bed and another woman calling out my fiancé’s name.
The first thing I noticed was her bra. Demi, lace, expensive. The kind of bra that you wear in the beginning, a serving platter for your breasts.
The next thing I noticed was her stomach; it was bulbous. Not the type of bulbous that comes from a few too many servings of pasta. The type of bulbous that comes from housing a growing human being.
The third thing I noticed was that I knew her. She wasn’t some mythical creature, some blank slate who would occupy my mind, leading to many nights slouched over a bar, slurping wine, concocting a probable backstory with a friend. No, I knew her backstory. I thought I knew her entire story.
Of course I did. She was my sister.