Some foreign city
“I’m trying to think of a way you could franchise it,” he says from across the table, and I remember instantly what I’d liked about him when we’d met once before, years ago. He thinks big. Somewhere on another timeline I am in my van in the desert and in another timeline I am still with M and in another timeline I have died from cancer or one of those infections my body couldn’t fight without intravenous antibiotics, but in this timeline I am sitting beside an old friend and the big idea guy, talking about my day job, after stopping by the library, after walking long lengths—in the heat—though less oppressive than it’s been—down downtown sidewalks, pretending I’m a professional crossing streets to get to the cafe, while joggers swerve like I’m the obstacle. I know it’s spring, but it’s summer, really—one of those days when the town’s whole spirit can be sensed—a “stumbling upon a book sale” kind of morning. But in the background is an unfamiliar body that’s likely low on iron just two hours into the day, bleeding again after the bleeding just ended, lightheaded and wobbly on the sidewalks, making its way to this work meeting. I think it’s my first official day of perimenopause, and who can I even tell? Who would announce it? But then, why don’t we celebrate this the way mothers and daughters and sisters and girlfriends talk about getting our first period? Why are there no menopause parties? Why is it that I’m only just realizing there is a secret cohort of women across the world experiencing this same thing right now, walking around their own towns: the second puberty, the rollercoaster, the something strange is happening to my mind and body. My familiar body. I’ve grown so accustomed to its sync, its cycles, the way my lust for life follows them and then folds, neatly, on time. The way I’ve come to know this rhythm as me. The way this rhythm has become my map for 30 years, and now I’m walking the streets of some foreign city. I retreat to my boyfriend’s house after the meeting—sit at his kitchen table, take an iron tablet, drink powdered electrolytes, make food, make art. We’re not each other’s audience, but “I like that part,” he’ll offer to me, or I to him, when we share what we’ve been working on. I move to the bed with my laptop and close the door because suddenly I’m watching an overflow of words stream out of me and I’m alive and electric and can’t stop. I had forgotten how to locate this place. I hadn’t been here in 20 years.
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