The soft sounds blended into Szofi’s dream. The unmistakable rustle of someone getting dressed, the metallic chime of a belt buckle, and the quiet click of a closing door transported her into a fitting room in a clothing store. She was struggling to pull up a pair of indigo skinny jeans that just wouldn’t go past her thighs.
She opened her eyes in relief. Just a stupid dream. After all, she was lying on her stomach in bed, and the new jeans were lying on the floor, in front of the nightstand. Inside out.
Inside out? She pushed herself up on her elbows in a panic. The sudden movement sent a sharp pain through her skull.
Oh god, no…
Patrik.
She had given herself to him last night as if her life depended on it. No—thrown herself at him. God, that luscious mouth, that soft, curly hair! Impossible to resist.
They hadn’t even talked much. Maybe just enough for Patrik to mention he’d passed all his exams on the first try. She’d probably whined a bit about how she’d failed statistics for the second time and was sick and tired of studying. That’s when Patrik, seemingly moved by her frustration, had kissed her—even though it was the first time they’d spoken to each other. True, they had exchanged a few smiles in the math department hallway before. Funny how only there. Never anywhere else. But last night, fate—or maybe just cheap tequila—blew them both into the same club. Patrik offered to buy her a drink. She returned the favor. Then he bought another… and now here she was, lying in her apartment above a pair of inside-out jeans. What happened in between was more like a collage of blurry images than coherent memories. And this was already her second one-night stand since the breakup.
She jumped to her feet and rushed to the bathroom, trembling with fear. Without thinking, she upended the small trash can onto the tiles. A single wad of tissue and a mascara-streaked cotton pad tumbled to the floor. She tossed the bin aside and bolted to the kitchen. Ripped open the cupboard under the sink, grabbed the bag from the built-in trash bin, and yanked it out in one frantic motion. She didn’t care that it was already half-full; she shook the garbage out onto the floor impatiently. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a bell pepper stem roll across the tiles and a browned banana peel splat softly onto the white ceramic—but she had eyes for only one thing.
There it was. Yes!
They had used protection.
Her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed to the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, shaking. This was why she avoided one-night stands. The fear. The endless, gnawing fear of getting pregnant. Even though she was on the pill. Her head throbbed, but her heart was pounding too hard to notice the pain. Who knew how much time passed before she could pull herself together enough to get up. She gathered the scattered trash mechanically, tied up the bag, and fetched the mop bucket. Poured in some warm water. Added half a capful of ocean-scented cleaner—guaranteed to kill ninety-nine percent of bacteria and leave an extra glossy finish—and mopped up the banana stain from the tile.
Why is she this afraid?
She picked up the jeans and tossed them in the laundry. She always washed them inside out anyway, to keep them from fading. The tissue and cotton pad went back into the trash. Then she looked at herself in the mirror. All she saw was a gaze filled with bottomless despair.
Seriously. Why is she this terrified, if she’s been taking that shit for years?
She stepped into the shower and squeezed shampoo into her palm. Worked it into a lather, then massaged her scalp the way her mother had taught her long ago.
“We didn’t plan for you, you just happened. You really screwed us over, you know that?”—the familiar reproach echoed in her ears. She was a little girl again—back in that time, standing by the small kitchen table in her red corduroy dress with the shoulder straps, hair cropped short like a boy’s. She had been ashamed of “just happening.” Even then, she’d already caused so much trouble for her parents. They were furious with her again now—this time because she’d told her teacher they were going to Germany for the summer, even though she’d been explicitly told not to. But the words had just slipped out. Marci had said they were going to Czechoslovakia, and she just couldn’t hold back. She blurted out, “We’re going to Germany in our Trabant!”
And of course, she’d gotten in huge trouble for it. A massive scolding. It was awful. After all, someone who just shows up in the world, uninvited, impatient, selfish, and stubborn—well, that kind of person should learn to stay small.
“Fucking hell…” she muttered into the stream of water.
Her tears mixed with the shampoo and trickled bitterly down the corner of her mouth.
She patted herself dry and wrapped the towel around her head. Then she stepped cautiously back in front of the mirror. Saying it out loud was still too much—too soon.
She stared into her red, puffy, tear-streaked eyes.
“It’s not even your fault, for fuck’s sake…” she whispered. “If you can still think about protection after half a bottle of tequila, even while on the pill—she could have, too.”