CREATIVE NONFICTIONCREATIVE NONFICTION 8787unmistakable scent of cilantro. Say either, Shucks, or—if you’re so
inclined—Fuck.
Begin laughing so hard your belly hurts (or is that why your
belly hurts?).
Or begin crying (or is that why you’re crying?).
Do whatever it is you need to do. Call your mother after all. She
loves you more than you could possibly know. When you get home,
wash your hands.
Get on the Internet. Know it’s a mistake. Get on it anyway. Search
for signs.
Twitch in the abdomen.
Hot flashes.
Headaches.
Earaches.
Breasts feel weird.
Say aloud, “I am a rational woman.”
Search for Is noticing the scent of cilantro a sign?
Eat a cookie. Eat two cookies, or twelve. Bake some more because
baking soothes you and you need to do what soothes you.
Go to bed. In the darkness of the bedroom, reach out for your
husband. Feel the lines of your two bodies against each other. Think
how perfectly they fit.
Wake early the next morning, before anyone else in the house has
stirred. Tiptoe into the bathroom, locking the door behind you. You
don’t want your husband to see you. Not this time. Think how you
must look. How the sight must be almost humorous—you squatting
over a cup and pissing. Your oversized T-shirt skirting the floor. Your
sallow face and your tangled lioness hair. Tell yourself you are wild
and fierce and even perfect. Know it’s fine if you actually feel like you
are failing or broken or a total asshole.
Know you are perfect anyway.
Now, close your eyes. Remember the day you first rode your bike
without holding on—Look, you said. No hands. Think about how, after
that, you could ride your bike for hours without ever touching the
handles. Repeat this to yourself: If not today, tomorrow. If not this month,
next. Whisper it so that no one else in the entire world can possibly hear
it. Whisper it so quietly that it’s almost as untraceable as the line only
you could see.
Wait five minutes.
Then look.