JUSTIFIED CONDUCT

The day came, quicker than she expected.  It was a cold, angry day...a day punctuated by dry heaves traveling a shuddering route from her stomach to her throat,  tears and sanity returning only briefly before another ripple of nausea seized her small frame.  Each time her head jerked forward, the toilet emitted a foul odor, intensifying the gagging motion.  Pressing her hands to the hard cold enamel, she slid slowly to the floor, curling for innumerable minutes in a fetal position with fear washing in steady waves over her body.

A short while later, the world literally demanded her presence.  She rose from the chipped linoleum, donned soft, faded jeans, a ribbed sweater, and a worn bomber jacket.  As she moved, several cockroaches scattered and she envied their existence...their main goals in life being survival and procreation. Swaying unsteadily, she eyed the person in the mirror, vaguely remembering a happier, less mature woman.  Bending with a groan, she tugged on the tap forcing a loud squeak, followed by a sputtering trickle of liquid.  A final yank produced freezing stained water flowing sporadically from the dented faucet.

 Attempting to reduce the swelling in her tear-ravaged eyes, she plastered a wet wash cloth to her face, while drops of ice water dribbled down her chin and splattered in the basin.  Next, she pulled a comb through her hair, letting the comb fall to the counter with a thud.  The first attempt at lipstick proved impossible.  Wadded-up, pink-smeared toilet paper joined the comb on the counter with a variety of other rejected items, including the washcloth.

 At last she faced the inevitable and concentrated her thoughts on the necessary effort and deception required for accomplishing this day’s monumental task.  Her whole night had been spent in weakness, dreading the final outcome of this last year.  Three hundred and sixty-five days consumed in negotiations to arrive at this very moment, which now appeared miserable and foreboding.  A lot could happen in a year...babies were born, people died, wars were fought.  This blasted ordeal had stolen a whole year of her life.  Her very existence hinged on today, possibly bringing shame and humiliation to everything that had gone before, affecting the here and now, and predicting the future.

As she put the finishing touches on her appearance, her stomach felt weighted with rocks.  An odd sort of dread crept over her body.  For once, her clothing and her makeup were not chosen for the TV cameras, nor would she bend to the desires of public sentiment today.  If...and only if...the plan proceeded as scheduled, she would receive a gift far more precious than anything she owned: her husband.