Bloody

by Gracie Georgina

It already started: the trickling.   It’s been weeks since I’ve had a chance to change the course of time and pop one in the oven.  Without warning, in the midst of choosing whether I should buy the Drumstick cones or the mint and chip quarter-tub, it came; like a geyser seeking refuge from a hidden mountain on a stuffy summer’s day.  The fountain of youth, constantly reminding me that hot flashes are THAT far away; fifty couldn’t come any quicker. I need a drink.