Abigail froze. Something unimaginable had just taken root in her subconscious. If you're expecting murder, you're reading the wrong story. This ain’t the Hallmark Channel. Though I see how you got there.
Abigail's mind was locked in an internal and dramatic courtroom battle. Both sides of the case held compelling arguments. As judge and jury in the matter, she sat in silence, listening to her internal prosecutor of social consciousness grill the witness on the stand - Mother Nature.
She wished this were a real courtroom, though, rather than the one unfolding in her mind. At least the chair would be more comfortable than the stiff polypropylene seat she had claimed while waiting at Seaside Elite Auto Service.
The day had been hellish. A high-speed drive through East Hampton’s rolling hills and winding curves had seemed like the perfect remedy, an escape from the crushing weight of the argument still lingering like a storm between Abigail and her husband. In starting her therapy run, she had swiped the keys to the McLaren, a car they both loved, though she drove it much more frequently than he.
Abigail suspected her husband enjoyed the social prestige the vehicle afforded him, while she appreciated the car’s true purpose - speed and performance. But on a critical turn, too absorbed in her courtroom drama, she hit the brakes hard. The line severed, spurting brake fluid across the engine, a known issue with McLarens. Fortunately, she hadn’t struck anything. Just a simple spin-out. No injuries, but one casualty. Her phone had not survived the collision with the passenger door.
Now, stranded over a hundred miles from home, at night, in a service station, the inevitable loomed. If you think you know where this is going, you’re probably right.
Still fuming from the fight, she resisted the notions of responsibility urging her to call home and explain. Plus, she was still angry with him. She had already handled the situation. What was there to say? Before leaving for the night, the service station owner had called in a specialist, a young mechanic who worked on high-performance vehicles. Living in one of the wealthiest communities in America had its perks, including round-the-clock, concierge-like service from highly skilled craftsmen.
In the waiting room, the courtroom battle in her mind raged on. The prosecutor jotted down a damning question: Why won’t your husband get himself checked out?
Abigail knew the problem was not her. When it comes to biology, women just know. From the first time a girl notices a cute boy in junior high to the moment her biological clock starts counting to various hours - a woman just knows. For many women, the word “biology” and “intuition” are practically synonyms.
But, for assurances, she had herself tested. All systems operational. Science was now backing her argument, not just intuition. The problem was him, and she was once again requesting that he get himself checked out, a repeated request that now served as an annoying road closure sign.
His excuses and arguments for not getting examined had aged so poorly that they might now need a walker to stand up in court. Abigail smirked as her internal prosecutor grilled him: “Is senior care available for your arguments, sir?” But these were the facts of the case, and they were quite undeniable. His ego and pride were preventing her from relishing in one of the most majestic aspects of life. If Abigail wanted a child, drastic times might actually call for… well, you know.