Cosmopolitan
Elaine hadn't meant to get pregnant. There were lots of things in Elaine's life which she hadn't meant to do. She broke a lamp when she was seven, she broke a boy's heart when she was seventeen, and she broke an engagement when she was twenty-seven. But getting pregnant was pretty much the worst so far.
She turned sideways in the mirror and threw out her stomach. That's what people did in the movies when they wanted to see how they'd look in 9 months. Somehow, she found it hard to believe she'd look like a too-thin 35 year old with her back concaved and her face wrinkled with disgust when she was 9 months along.
"If we make it that far," she told her reflection matter-of-factly. "You fucking idiot." Laying a palm to her cheek, she tipped her head over the sink and threw up.
At work, Elaine tried to sit up as straight as she could. The last thing she needed were the girls knowing she'd gotten pregnant. For a phone sex operator, Elaine didn't get much actual real life sex, except the one time, obviously. Huffing and puffing until she blew the men down, she read fashion magazines and wrote life plans on the little subscription cards between calls. None of those life plans had included a kid. And they definitely hadn't included Mr. Romeo over there, sweeping the office floor.
Oh God, how had that happened? 6 hours of getting men off over the phone, looking down at the model you were supposed to look like could wear on a girl. When Jim asked her out 3 weeks ago, it'd been a long day of pretending to come, and Elaine was relieved that maybe someone was interested in her face rather than Candy Creame's chest.
"I'd like to make an appointment." She cupped her hand over the phone, casually ducking closer to the table. "That'll be fine, thank you."
A week and a half--and three home pregnancy tests--later, Elaine found herself sitting in the waiting room of a Planned Parenthood clinic, reading her own copy of Cosmopolitan, flipping the pages without actually looking at them. The procedure wouldn't hurt much, they'd said, and would be over with quickly. Elaine had been expecting something far more controversial than the quiet little sitting room with the drinking fountain in the corner and soft elevator music playing in the background.
When they called her into the back room Elaine had finished with her magazine. She tossed it on the table for other women to read, and she imagined what sorts of lives they had lead, the women who would look at her Cosmopolitan. "Elaine Hedgrove, 1894 Willow #3A, Coopersville, MD," the little tag on the cover read, mixed in with all the other reading material, the Parenting Magazines, and the Newsweeks.
After it was all over, Elaine found herself back in her own bathroom, turned to the side again, stomach stuck out. Laying a palm to her cheek, she tipped her head over the sink and threw up.