183

Milena

Shortly after David dumped her for that bimbo he picked up at his mother’s funeral, Milena decided there wasn’t any point in keeping her Mirena intrauterine contraceptive “up there” any longer. She’d had the nasty little pickax-looking gadget inserted more so for David’s convenience and pleasure than her own, and apart from now being pointless it had acquired a sort of snide symbolic stature—an ever present reminder, within the most intimate region of her innermost self, of the all-encompassing sway which that motherfucking shitass (her latest appellation of choice) had held over her.

So she made an appointment and went to the doctor and had the gizmo removed as a Mother May I? giant step toward moving on.

Only, the ground had collapsed beneath her footfall, as it were, and moving on from David had proved to be outside the compass of Milena’s resolve. Lying on her back in bed at night, she found herself staring through closed eyelids for hours on end at an unfathomable, impenetrable blackness; struggling for an answer, straining to understand why:

Why? Why wasn’t I good enough for him?

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