The cashpoint screen screamed “ten euros” in bold white next to “Account Balance.” With deadened fingers I fast-typed one, then zero, and pressed “Withdraw.” Walking to the doctor’s I impulsively stopped at a Spar with my last tenner. “Purples, please.” I thought I’d smoke my anxiety away before going into the medical center, but the tobacco smell made my inside roil. I should have known. Tears fell down after my appointment. A future crumbled. In my hand I held a hastily written note in heavy, judgmental writing: Positive pregnancy, folic acid supplements immediately. I threw the Purples in the bin.
Elisa Rivera writes in Boonwurrung country, Australia, and has lived in the Philippines and Ireland. Her microfictions were published in 101 Words and Paragraph Planet. X: @twitnikki