My husband flicked the syringe to remove the air bubbles. Aside from hipsters lounging at candlelit tables across the street, the sidewalks were clear. If we worked together, I could shoot up before anyone walked by. By the glow of the dome light, I pulled up my shirt, unbuttoned my pants and swiped an alcohol pad across my stomach while he prepared the injection.
I held my breath, and he plunged the needle in my belly, ringed with the bruises that marked his love for me. For an upcoming fertility treatment, I had to inject myself that evening, during the hours I attended a book reading in Los Feliz. By the time my husband and I left the reception — where the two of us going into the house’s sole bathroom would have perplexed guests – it was too late to wait until we returned home. Read full article.
