Last day.

I drove to work today sucking poppy seeds out of my teeth and playing with the radio. Every channel was a sermon. Yesterday was Sunday. Yesterday. Right?

I couldn't find a single song to sing along to, only old white guys with echoing microphones. One man spoke about women obeying their husbands. No. Absolutely not. I snapped the radio off. I hate driving in silence. I hate being there in that musty metal box with my thoughts. I rolled down the windows. I could smell fresh cut grass and wild onions, a scent I've always loved. The sound of the wind being sucked through the windows along with the Jeep's squeaking belt served as a staticy radio.

I'm a terrible driver. I'll admit it to anyone.

I speed. I accelerate through turns, possibly on two wheels. I've swerved into the next lane for a squirrel without considering oncoming traffic. On my second road test (I failed the first), I was one mark away from not getting my license. The instructor was so theatrical about making slashes through the score sheet and reviewing my errors that I burst into tears when he told me I had passed. "What's wrong with you, girl? You passed!"
I just sobbed. "You don't understand, I hate this. It's so stressful, I just... I just..."
"Now honey, you'll never have to do this ever again, smile! Where'd she get those pretty blue eyes, mom?"

At work, I was harassed about the new guy. It's something I suspected would happen sooner or later. We hit it off from the start, I'll admit it. Similar interests. We laugh a lot. We chat a lot. But so long as I am where I am in my so very complicated matters of the heart (insert rolling eyes), such thoughts are only entertained by those who have grown tired of their own lives. "He's just your type! If he broke up with his girlfriend, would you date him?"
"He's moving back to the city not long after you. How thick are the walls in your new apartment? Because that boy is going to..."
Incredible.
At least the cop who keeps trying to corner me and show me his dick didn't have the time to bother today.

I tuned them all out for a moment, leaning my head against the window and thinking of that talk on Saturday night. I told my friend I wanted to have a baby before I was thirty. I don't know why the words even came out of my mouth, they just did. I want to have our first child before I'm thirty. "Well before then. We'll be ready, sure we will, kid! Easy." It made me grin like an absolute fool. As fantastically stupid as the thought of being ready to have a child is, I laid in my bed, my eyes shimmering with tears in the dark. I wondered what conception would be like. Who intends to make a baby? What's it like? I bet there's some strange, primal sense of duty and accomplishment. Satisfaction. As an animal, aren't we programmed to make more of us? Isn't the success of a species based on population? Maybe I'm ruining sex in general, here. I'll shut up.

I wish there were a way to truly know sometimes if I really knew what I wanted or if I were haplessly falling in love with ideas all my life only to grow out of them, change my mind. Any child of mine was likely to have some grandiose name that I'd stumbled upon in a book. Something strange, something old, something important. Hypatia. Hippolyta! Something I'd one morning wake up and cringe about, embarrassed that I'd ever once thought that was a good idea. Something my poor child would cry to me about being burdened with an awful name after a bad day at school. Naming my child alone, I'm not sure I could be trusted with. Truthfully, I'd never wanted a child before I met him. Never had I even entertained the idea. It feels right. It feels right at this moment. But who's to say that a child isn't something that is a formerly wonderful idea? How terrible it would be to have your entire existence regretted by another.

It was a slow day. I couldn't make myself fuss around the store, straightening, lacing and stuffing shoes like I usually do. Instead, I sat in the window playing with my hair and thinking about my unborn children. Running my fingers through my hair and feeling the heat of the sun on the outermost layer, then sliding my hand underneath where it was much cooler. I held it there for a moment, fingers combed through midway through the length, appreciating the weight and shine before letting the strands sweep through my fingers and across my palm.

I was saying goodbye.

My coworkers buzzed around me, yammering on about tomorrow. They asked me to hold my hair up off my face to see my cheekbones and the angle of my jaw. They asked me to explain again what I wanted. They rambled on about different celebrities and their hair cuts and local stylists and who's talented and who isn't.

I suppose the attention is flattering, the support is definitely nice. My own mother has been almost completely silent about the issue ever since I brought it up as a hypothetical months ago. While I thank her for not saying "no, don't do it," it does hurt that I know that there's a chance of her refusing to look at me tomorrow afternoon in some sort of protest. God, I hope not. Even if it looks terrible, please. I can't stand to have her not look at me.