“Morning,” I croak, opening his bedroom door and yawning, pretending like I’ve been asleep this whole time. Pretending like I didn’t set my alarm for 7:00 a.m. to remove my crusty makeup and reapply it by early windowlight and phone. I even thought about trying to poop without detection while Patrick snored softly, hugging the couch, dead asleep, but I’d rather hold it, poison my microbiome, and die slow.
The art of being a woman
