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One of the worst things about having fair skin and red hair is that I flush easily. And why is it that people always have to point this out? Yes, I’m aware that I got a sunburn. Thanks, I know I’m blushing, and you pointing it out is not helping.
Back in college, while getting a wasted humanities degree, I ducked out of a boyfriend’s room to use the bathroom post-sex and bumped into the guy he shared the apartment with, who helpfully pointed out that my chest was all red.
Gee, thanks.
Adorkable guy does not point out my blushing, credit to him, but his gaze lingers on me, a combination of concern and curiosity and recognition.
And then I realize…he knows what the pill is for.
It was hard enough going to a Planned Parenthood. Even though the staff and escorts were nothing but kind to me, they couldn't stop the protestors outside.
It was hard enough telling my ex-boyfriend that I was pregnant and I wasn’t keeping it.
It was hard enough worrying about getting the pill in the mail in time because my state has stupid laws that make it impossible to get the medication I needed, and I had to jump through hoops to get it.
And now I’m in the face of some random stranger who knows I’ve been prescribed the abortion pill.
I’m already frazzled as it is, and before he has a chance to say any of the things I’ve heard from protestors or my (ex-)boyfriend, I shoulder past him and mutter thanks.
One small act of kindness does not make up for the idiocy of many, many men.
2
I RESOLVE TO IMPROVE MY BEDSIDE MANNER
Greg
I had noticedthe redhead at my gate in Dallas. It’s hard not to—she has bright red, curly hair and a loud voice with an accent—Long Island or New Jersey or someplace up north where they elongate their vowels but without a drawl.
Now she picks her way through the crowd, more careful this time and without her phone, and settles into a seat by the window.
I know what those pills are for, and I can’t imagine there’s a reason she has them other than she intends to take them.
I sigh and return my attention to my phone, but it’s hard to concentrate. I glance up a few times, and she’s reading, but really focused reading, in a way that makes it feel like avoidance. Like maybe she’s aware I’m looking at her and is purposefully not looking at me.
Her tripping and spilling her tampons everywhere were embarrassing enough, I’m sure, but with the pill too…
We both flew in from Texas, a state that’s completely banned abortions. Never mind that the big cities all vote blue—Texas is still a red state, and I can’t imagine what she’s gone through up to this point.
I want to tell her that it's going to be okay, that it’s her body, her choice. But it’s probably best to leave it alone.
Sure, I tell myself that I’ll leave it alone, but my brain says, hey, if we were going to talk to the cute woman, what would we say?
So, no matter how much I try to focus on my phone for the next couple hours—through the puddle-jumping, twenty-passenger flight, the wait in the customs line, and loading up in the same van together for the resort—all I can think about is what I’m going to say to her.
Even though I’m not going to say anything.
This is why I work with kids. Kids are so much easier to talk to. They’re straightforward; they take what I say at face value. It’s the parents of the kids I treat who are tricky.
Talking to adults has never been my strong suit. Even though I knew early on that I wanted to go into pediatrics, I still had to work with adult patients, and I constantly got poor marks on my bedside manner. I was too clumsy, too lacking in confidence, and patients always seemed to be looking for a hidden meaning in my words, even though I said exactly what I meant.
Therefore, there’s no way I’m going to talk to this woman. Instead, we’re both silent on the ride to our resort, her sitting in the row in front of me.
It does not surprise me that we’re headed to the same hotel. It’s a small island with one dinky runway at the airport. There were three buildings: a liquor store, a cafe, and the customs office.Going through customs was a joke: we stood in line in the bright sun, sweating, just to fill out a form from the tourism board. The island is not one of the bigger destinations. There isn’t a Sandals or a Holiday Inn. Just the small boutique Wanderlust Resort and a few guest houses or villas for rent.
The redhead stood three people ahead of me in line.
There were plenty of opportunities for eye contact, so many that it was weird that our eyes hadn’t met.
