Queen Move

As the meal winds down, the bright colors of sunset fading into evening, I take my cue from Mona and start carrying empty dishes back into the house.

“So what’d you think of Barry?” Mona asks, opening the dishwasher and loading a few plates.

“Who?”

“You know. Barry.” Mona straightens, puts her hands on her hips and offers a suggestive smile. “Dark hair, pretty brown eyes, wearing the Georgia Tech T-shirt.”

“Oh, him. Am I supposed to think something about him in particular?”

“He asked if you were seeing anyone,” she lilts.

“He did? Hmm. Not sure he’s my type.”

“Because he’s not rich?” Mona asks, rolling her eyes.

“No, of course not. He’s got a biker body.”

“Biker body?”

“You know, that real lean look. Like he hasn’t had a meal that wasn’t an energy bar in a while and like he metabolizes every calorie before he even eats it. I’m not a little girl. I like a not-a-little man or I feel like I might crush him.”

“You’re not a big girl.”

“Bigger than him.” I laugh. “Does he or does he not bike?”

Mona blows out a short breath. “I hate you.”

“I knew it.” I point a serving spoon at her. “He’s got that Lance Armstrong look.”

“I can confirm he has both his balls.”

I angle a WTF look at her.

“I mean, I don’t know know, like firsthand,” Mona says, laughing. “But one can assume.”

“Well, this one doesn’t need to know.”

“Are you not in the market for a relationship? Or even a fling?”

“I don’t know what I’m in the market for.”

“Girl, same. And my mama is riding me hard about grandkids. I tried marriage and it wasn’t for me. Lasted about two years and ended badly.” A shadow crosses her face, and though I can see her try to shake it, she doesn’t quite succeed.

“You think you’ll try again?” I ask.

“Probably. Right person, yeah, sure. I love kids and might if only to have a baby and a partner I respect enough to raise it. How about you? You want kids?”

The question crashes into me unexpectedly, like a wrecking ball right to the chest. When people asked me that before, I played it off, or shrugged and said someday. Now my someday has an expiration date. I haven’t allowed myself to process it, but standing alone in Mona’s kitchen with an old friend, the first person I confided my “girl” stuff to, everything comes to the surface.

“I’m in perimenopause.”

Mona frowns, then her eyes widen in realization. “You’re in what? Menopause?”

“Perimenopause, but yeah.” I point to my midsection and pelvis area. “All of this is vacating the premises earlier than expected.”

“But we’re in our thirties.”

“Exactly.”