1

A red streak stained the baby blue fitted sheet between Yaya’s legs. She sat up, kicking away blankets, and let chilly November air crawl into the bed.

Fuck, not now. That wasn’t fair; she hadn’t even been spotting this week.

Her brain sifted through cloudy memories, filtering good water from sweet poison. Last night’s hookup—what was her name again?—had asked if her fingers were touching an IUD and promised in a dry tone that birth control wasn’t needed tonight. Yaya had been half-drunk, full exhausted, and figured her body just wasn’t getting with the program.

Now she knew why: pre-menstruation anticipation. She didn’t need this, especially not in another woman’s apartment, in her bed. What-Was-Her-Name would probably be cool about it, most women would, but that hadn’t been the case last time Yaya’s period popped in the morning after a one-night stand.

Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember that woman’s name either.

Maybe that was the real reason she’d screamed for Yaya to get the hell out. She hoped this new stranger had a little more patience and understanding on all counts.

Yaya slipped from the bed onto cold plank flooring and found her slender black purse at her feet. She carried it to the bathroom, shut the door, and pawed the purse’s overstuffed insides—no feminine products. She hadn’t been prepared for this.

Any sympathetic paramour would certainly spare a pad and tampon without complaint. And if she complained, Yaya had already stained her sheets and forgotten her name. There were plenty of things to be angry over; borrowing supplies would come low on the list.

Yaya shoved her purse aside and raided under the sink. What-Was-Her-Name kept her pads and tampons in boxes beside folded washcloths, but she was running low on tampons. Fingers crossed she was extremely forgiving and this one-night stand didn’t lead to any synchronizing. Yaya sat on the toilet, got herself in order, and then unwrapped the tampon.

It wouldn’t go in.

And after all that moralizing. Was it the same trouble as last night with What-Was-Her-Damn-Name’s fingers? No, Yaya was sober now and this didn’t feel like her muscles clenching. Something was in the way, small and loose, yet hard. Hooking her fingers, she did a little prodding, and it fell into her hand, dotting her palm with red splotches around the lump of bone.

A baby tooth.

She blinked. This had to be a calcium deposit that happened to form a molar’s shape. She tossed it between her legs, where it plonked in the toilet water, and grasped the tampon again.

It still wouldn’t slide in. She was almost afraid to find out why, but she had to know. Scant seconds after she set the tampon aside, her exploring fingertips brushed larger rounded bones inside her. She couldn’t guess how many by touch alone, but they felt set in the tissue.

“Yaya?” The voice bounced her name on a drowsy tongue. What-Was-Her-Name hadn’t noticed the state of her bed yet, only that she was alone.