“You ready? Last flight leaves in 45!”

She isn’t. Asks me to grab her lipstick. We’re going skydiving; who cares what pink shade wraps your screaming lips at 10,000 feet?

“Not in our room!”

Check her office. Can’t write that thesis without makeup.

“Or here. Can we go, please?”

Without lipstick? Am I drunk? Vulnerable state before free fall. If it’s not in the baby blue bathroom, I’m—

There! Edge of the sink, almost in the trash. A white strip pops in my periphery. Two lines—pink and loud. Positive.

“Ready?” she asks.

“No, I’m not.”

Bio: Arthur Klepchukov