Was too late to submit D:
Marla Singer got sick the third month of pregnancy and wasn’t sure what to do in the mornings anymore, she detested coffee and threw up twice the whole time.
She learned to play the guitar and smoke at the same time.
Sometimes she sat, hands on her extended belly blowing smoke in different directions in her small, grey apartment; head on the kitchen cupboards , legs extended out on the acid green linoleum, she forgot what kind of cigarettes, and what the fathers eyes were like, she tried to forget herself.
She went to a self-help group once, she knew she needed it.
He was sitting in a way contortionists lick their lips at, knees and arms a-jumble, name tag Cornelious in scrawling pen.
His eyes were baggy and glinting, no color but their glare.
She knew he wasn’t pregnant, lord he was male, and he didn’t need help from any single spouses anonymous group on Friday nights.
When his lips curled back, she knew somehow he spoke to no one his whole life and enjoyed it.
She grumbled into her coffee, it tasted like spit, puffed on her cigarette and briefly wondered how many arms she was condemning her child to have.
She moved her hands over her stomach, she was frail for motherhood; not scared but small, and he watched.
His eyes slid.
His mouth quirked in contempt.
He cried into her dingy t-shirt and left.
The baby died.
Marla was tired in the day and hungry at night.
She went to self-help groups and cried into peoples shirts.
She never saw Cornelius again.
She was hit by a bus on Tuesday and dies on a Friday, she felt it for the best.
After all, the ultra sounds announced two arms, one head and two legs.
All ten toes and fingers, and yet it died.
For the best.