She said she would tie a knot with the cherry stem. She choked.

She’s home. She’s screaming in a hopeless rage. Cusses her reflection. Smashes her cosmetics off the vanity. Texts her ex.

Her ankle throbs. Her vodka haze holds a memory of tripping out of the bar. She slaps her forehead. And then her cheek for good measure.

She’s single with looming pressure. You need to be married. You need to have children. You need to be somebody else’s problem.

She flops on the bed. “Am I going about this right?”

No. But she doesn’t know where else to look. She banks on her body reeling in the right catch.