Page 77 of Tethered

“Are you where you want to be?”

It takes me a moment, because the answer is no longer so clear-cut. “No.”

As lunch winds to an end and people drift off, a cramp shoots through my stomach. I bite back a gasp at the suddenness, but Marlowe doesn’t miss a thing.

“What was that?”

I wave her off, riding the next few out. It’s like someone is ramming their fist into my womb. But she hovers, eyes tracking my movements until realisation dawns.

“Oh,” she drags the word out. “Your period?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“What was that noise for?”

Marlowe looks bemused. “I don’t know... I guess I just thought of you as so tough that you experiencing period pain seems weird.”

“There’s misogyny in there somewhere,” I grit out.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Butches deal with that shit enough as it is, you don’t need it from me.”

I’ve been called butch before—always by Tellurians—and though we don’t have the term inSurya-Vani, I know something of the struggles women like me go through. I wear masculine clothing in my free time, and if long hair wasn’t so revered in my culture, I’d probably cut most of mine off. The way I carry myself, the way I talk, and my physique means people sometimes have no idea what to do with me. And yes, I’ve been given strange looks when mentioning my period before. So I appreciate Marlowe acknowledging prejudice.

“Are your cramps always this bad?”

“Always. I fucking hate having periods. All these advancements, and they can’t figure out a way to circumvent them.”

“It must be bad if you’re swearing.” Marlowe bites her lip. “What do you normally do?”

“What do you mean? Nothing. Why, what do you do?”

We still haven’t left the greenhouse, and she squints up at the canopy overhead. “I honestly can’t remember. I hada hysterectomy after Vee was born, and I don’t get them anymore.”

“Lucky,” I say under my breath.

“Oh, you’re so grouchy when you’re menstruating. It might be the cutest thing ever.”

I have to stop and look at her to determine whether she’s being serious or not. I’m not necessarily someone who gets PMS, but I could consider it right now. I could consider murder right now, in fact.

Marlowe grins, and I can see she’s trying to break the tension.

“Come on, Tee,” she says, steering me out of the greenhouse. “We’ve still got some repairs to do today but let me take care of you for a little bit first.”

Another cramp hits before I can assure her that I don’t need the attention. After all, I’ve lived through this for over two decades. My sister has Polycystic Ovary Syndrome and only gets periods irregularly; I can’t count the number of times we’ve wished we could switch. I’d take hirsutism any day. I don’t generally think about my gender or my sex much—it never mattered until I joined the IAF—but once a month, I’d do anything to have been born without a uterus. I don’t want children, so it seems like a cruel joke that I have to suffer this at all.

Marlowe guides me to the spa, claiming that I need a hot bath, and a shower just won’t do. What follows is something I’ve never experienced before. She ignores my protestations and makes me sit in the corner of a pastel blue room with a mug of tea and painkillers before she disappears. And whilst I watch, wide-eyed, she bustles around with an armful of clean clothes and towels, blowing me exaggerated kisses. She’s trying to make me laugh, and I appreciate it even though it doesn’t work.

She insists on helping me into the bath: a huge, copper tub with vintage taps and pretty pearl detailing. And then she pulls up a stool, tells me to close my eyes, and washes my hair.

It’s uncomfortable being cared for like this. It’s also the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.

I blame my hormones for the tears that try to leak down my cheeks in response to her hands lathering shampoo into my roots. She’s gentle, and it hurts. I slide down in the tub, ducking my face under the water to wash away the evidence before resurfacing. Through wet eyelashes, I catch her eye roll.

“You fought me every step of the way,” she says sarcastically. “Why stop now?”

I shrug, looking away, back down at the mountain of bubbles that hides my naked skin. The room smells like lilies and strawberries, and the lights are a soothing, warm hue.