Space They Cannot Touch

49.

"God fucking damnit!" you hissed.

The plane shook and you put your hands out instinctively. The dark red stain sneered back at you and a fresh wave of frustration washed over you. The plane shook again and, muttering darkly to yourself, you pulled out a fresh pair of undies and a lone tampon from your backpack.

"Typical" you sighed at your reflection, washing your hands and exiting the cramped toilet, making your way back to your seat.

You glared sullenly out the window as your abdomen began to ache in earnest, that heavy gnawing pain that ebbed and swelled like waves upon the sand. A headache was building behind your eyes and your back was stiffening; all in all, you felt like utter crap. With a defeated sigh you hit the call button, grateful that you didn't have to wait long for a hostess to appear.

"Yes?"

"Can I please have a cup of tea? White, one sugar?"

"Of course Miss"

"Um -" she paused, turning to look at you. "Do you have any chocolate, or..." you trailed off, blushing.

She smiled knowingly and nodded, disappearing down the aisle. You resumed staring out the window, watching the wing disappear in the fluffy clouds as you contemplated ugly names for your unwanted visitor.

Just my luck, you thought morosely. You usually didn't mind getting your period, a welcome albeit painful and oft inconvenient normal that for the last 17 years had consistently reassured you that you weren't knocked up.

But you no longer felt relieved. Though you wouldn't dare to admit it aloud, you had been hoping that you were pregnant. After that afternoon in Verona, you'd believed it to be a sure thing. Definitely unintentional, but that was neither here nor there. Thinking back on it, you couldn't recall how many times you two had done it, everything else but each other irrelevant in that sweaty afternoon of tangled sheets and swollen lips, breaking only to order room service or rest before finding the others supple and willing form once more.

A particularly vicious wave of pain swelled in your abdomen, forcibly bringing you back to reality. Wincing, you reached for your backpack, swallowing two painkillers as the hostess returned with a cup of tea, a chocolate bar and a hot water bottle.

"What do I owe you?" you asked, fishing for your purse.

"Nothing, just sing out if you need anything else" she said, smiling kindly once more before departing.

The hot water bottle was wondrously comforting and you broke off a generous piece of chocolate, nibbling at it as you resumed your pondering.

Being logical, it was best that you weren't pregnant. Tom's schedule was insane and kept the two of you apart for the remainder of the year, not to mention the fact that you'd been married for a literal hot minute, something people seemed only too happy to remind you of.

Various gossip channels had shared so-called expert claims about the difficulties faced by celebrity and non-celebrity couples (as if the two of you hadn't already been dealing with them), touting supposed statistics about the success and failure of other similar relationships.

Your colleagues had also become relationship experts overnight, spouting the sentiment that "the first year is the hardest" when you'd foolishly commented that being married didn't feel any different except for the piece of paper and changing your last name. Though you didn't doubt there was some truth to the phrase, it wasn't exactly useful advice. When you'd asked Tom over FaceTime if anyone had been giving him unwarranted marriage advice, he'd rolled his eyes and said he'd lost count of the number of people who'd touted "Happy Wife Happy Life" to him, as if you would turn into Medusa if you didn't get your way every time.