I’m laying in my bathtub with the water too hot, and my belly is distended from the baby inside it. I’m holding a wine bottle. It’s green glass. The glass is smooth and cool against my fingers. My cat, a little black thing, walks along the edge of the cast-iron tub scaring me. I’m afraid of her sharp claws. She’ll fall in and they’ll cut me, her nails will rake into my skin and it will hurt. She jumps down to the bathroom floor and I tap tap tap the green glass bottle against the edge of the tub. I listen to the sounds of the glass echoing off the tile walls of the bathroom. Tap tap tap. I can hear the sounds of my downstairs neighbor below as she nails something into the wall. Her bathroom is pink, bright pink, a Barbie house, like a jewel box. I feel the weight of the glass bottle in my hand. It’s nearly empty now. I feel its weight shifting back-and-forth between my palms and it’s so perfect, so even. What’s to stop me from smashing it hard once? One hard tap against the side of the white tub, the white walls. What’s to stop me? The broken shards of glass fly across the tub and land in the water and fall slowly slowly to the bottom and rest there next to my skin. There are jagged edges to the bottle now, the bottle I hold my hand. I run the ragged edges so lightly against my skin, the skin of my leg. Up my calf. Up towards my thigh underneath my knee, feel the weight against my skin, sharp, not pressing too hard. Then in one movement just as quickly as I smashed the bottle against the side of the tub I push the bottle into my leg. I push hard. I push the sharp edges of the bottle into my leg. I release my green bottle and I let it rest against my knees jutting out of the water up out of the tub at a sharp angle and I read the label aloud to the room and my voice echoes:
Warning: according to the Surgeon General women should not drink alcoholic beverages during pregnancy.