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A Brunchtime Funeral For A Fetus

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The following is a satire in reaction to the current administration’s dangerous and irrational approach to women’s reproductive health and all of our well-being.

I look in the mirror, and everything as it should be. My makeup is set with finishing spray, my hair is having one of those rare moments of easy perfection, my clothes aren’t wrinkled or wine-stained, and I’m absolutely famished. I text the group chat with the girls — It’s all set. Le Petit will be packed, but Claire knows the hostess, who squeezed in our party of six. God, I can’t wait for a mimosa. Do they have flavored ones there? I guess orange is a flavor. I turn out the bathroom light and walk over to the bed, where I gently kiss last night’s lover. “I have to go,” I say softly to his starfished sleeping self. He’d been so thrilling in bed and made sure I consented before he did that one thing. I almost felt bad throwing him out. But our 12-hour sex allotment is almost over before the law requires us to marry, so we have to say goodbye. I give him my phone number, but tell him if he texts me “What’s up?” at 3am, I will alert the authorities.

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My Febreze car air freshener has overpowered the scent of last night’s Wendy’s left behind in the passenger seat, and a small smile passes over my lips sheened in a new matte lipstick that doesn’t dry them out, which also makes me smile. Luckily, I only drove through one checkpoint, at which I compliantly recited the three Hail Mary’s (one for being born a woman, one for living life as a woman, and one for good measure) and the Trumpian ode with my eyes closed, as is mandatory for women. After scanning my white card, the authorities were kind enough to let me keep driving on to my brunch. Brunch is still allowed for whites after all. And I really didn’t want to stay outside much longer: the tar rains were starting to drizzle, and those are really hard to get off of my white diesel Jetta.

Inside Le Petit, I see Jessica, Kate, Katie, Sarah and Claire, all looking equally glowing. We are seated quickly and treated to an amuse bouche of Monsanto truffle fries. Thank god we finally figured out how to grow truffles in the U.S. After the foreign food ban, I got really sick of dreaming of Bahn Mi dipped in vats of truffle oil with sushi on top. I never dreamed of Mexican food though, oddly enough. I guess my subconscious knew how dangerous that would be.

The mimosas finally come. The kiwi flavor was to die. Kate makes a joke about the Trump TV sky broadcast from the morning that is so funny we just laugh and laugh. But quietly. We cheers and laugh some more. And right as my made in America plastic champagne glass makes a dull click against Sarah’s, I feel the strangest sensation. It feels as though I've urinated in my state-sanctioned, sexy but not slutty, virginal but fuckable uniform. Mortified, I excuse myself politely — being sure not to move too quickly because busy women get taken to the camp — and get to the very clearly marked white, natural born, straight women bathroom.

When I pull down my pants I am aghast to see blood, far more than any menstrual cycle. As I sit on the toilet, I continue to bleed out. Suddenly, an alarm sounds. The panic lights turn on. I hear the door open and a group of people shuffling in. The stall door is bashed open, and the first person I see is a priest. He throws holy water in my face and it kind of burns. He begins saying prayers for the fetal tissue that has just fallen out of me, and curses Satan for the word “miscarriage.” If I wasn’t still of child-bearing age, I would be sent to the camp with the other witches. But thankfully, I can still bear sons for the border army. They hand me a small, golden box and tell me to scoop my lost child into it, and to proceed to the nearest funeral home with a blank check made out to God. I'm also instructed to masturbate to the idea of Mike Pence watching me give birth once home as a meditation for my unruly womb.

I return to the table and pour out the rest of my kiwi mimosa onto my antibiotic eggs as tribute. This is no longer brunch, it is a funeral.

Top photo: Flickr/Personal Creations, personalcreations.com

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Chloe Stillwell is a culture critic and journalist working out of Nashville. She has a writing degree from the New School, and is a UCB-trained comedian. Follow her at thewinemom.com, and on Twitter and Instagram @w1nem0m

Tags: dystopia , satire , fiction
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