Brockton Writer Series

Below is the first two paragraphs of what I'm reading next week at the Brockton Writer Series:!/event.php?eid=145742252111513

Jane slides off the examining table and reaches for her underwear. The room is severe. All metal and white with its sharp edged seriousness. The used paper sheet lies crinkled and lifeless behind her. It smells like alcohol and old paint. Her stomach turns and she steadies herself with one hand on the counter. Playing doctor as a kid was silly and exaggerated. Far from this calculated, sensible reality. She takes her jeans off the chair. Routine. She shuts her eyes and squeezes. Lavender foam bath, a crackling log fire, freshly baked bread.

Outside, the nausea from before creeps up inside her like a lizard. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. It’s been six months. They just wanted to be sure because the test results were irregular. Other things that are irregular; verbs, galaxies, geometrical shapes. On the sidewalk beside the busy street she stares at the traffic. The smell out here is worse than inside. A combination of diesel, garbage and panic.