I snuck out of work early today (erm – that would be 5.45) and went for one of those awesome cheapo Vietnamese manicures. I was sitting there, blissed into meditation by the hum of lady-chat in a language I don’t understand, and the amazing hand massages they give – then:
My eyes snapped open, my head whipped down and my heart started thumping: she was using alcohol wipes to clean the cream off my nails.
There. Right there. It was the smell of an IVF round. It was the smell of my standing in my kitchen, belly bared, wiping down ready for the needle. It was the smell of lying on the couch, clutching ice to my stomach ’til it stung. The smell of hope. The smell of failure.
And I was just getting a fucking manicure.
(image: thank you)