Three Minutes

By Allyson Petrek

The instruction pamphlet says to dip the stick in for five seconds. Then, wait three minutes, no more than five.

Because if you didn’t time things correctly, what would happen? Perhaps an inaccurate result, birthing uncertainty and doubt. As if you didn’t have enough of that to begin with.

So, you dip the stick in—into a cup of your urine—and count: One…The cup is warm in your left hand… Two… The stick shakes in your right… Three…The liquid is yellow, pale yellow… Four… Hopefully, not too pale… Five… Was it five you needed to count to?

You pour your piss into the sink, set the stick on the counter, and start a timer for three minutes.

And so it begins. Go.

Do you pace back and forth? Or do you sit on the floor? Maybe the toilet seat? Do you clasp your fingers together and press them into your face, a stoic display of desperation?

No matter how you hold yourself, your heart flaps in your chest, a drunk pigeon trying to escape. You take some deep breaths and tell the pigeon to fuck off.

You plead with yourself: Don’t peek.

You bargain with your god: Let’s make a deal.

And you pray in any way you know how, repeating some nonsensical, self-prescribed mantra: please please please please please.

But your mind can’t focus on a single thread, and after a few seconds, your vision gets spotty, and the room gets hazy, and if you were sitting, you stand up, and if you were standing, you sit down.

From your new vantage point, you take a moment and watch your could-be life unfold like a choose-your-own-adventure book. One line or two?

You flip to the outcome—whichever one you’ve decided you don’t want—and imagine your new life. You tell yourself that no matter what the result, things will be okay. You’ll still be you when this is over. Right?

You check your timer.

Christ, it’s only been a minute.

Your mind does juvenile, out-of-control gymnastics—somersaulting over, flipping around, considering everything. You think: Goddamnit, piss goes in the toilet, not the sink. You’ll have to remember to clean the sink. Which makes you wonder: Is urine actually sterile?

Your mind tumbles over to the man (it must be a man; it always is) who helped get you into this situation. He’s responsible, yet not responsible at all. So, you dismiss the thought. Even on the off-chance he is sitting next to you, holding your hand, these three minutes don’t feel like this to him. While this may greatly impact his life, it is—in no way—the same for him as it is for you.

There’s a difference between watching a car crash, understanding the impact of that crash, having empathy for the people affected, and actually being in the car. After all, you’rethe one who has to pluck shattered glass from your hair and walk around with a crick in your neck for the rest of your life.

Someone calls you. From somewhere else in the house. Is it him? Someone else?

“Just a minute,” you say.

You check. Yes, that’s what you need now. Forty-eight more seconds.

You focus yourself here, now.

You squeeze your breasts. Are they bigger? More tender? Yes, you think so. You put your hand on your abdomen. Are things happening deep within? Explosions of multiplying cells? Maybe. Are you nauseous? Yes, definitely. So nauseous.

No, you tell yourself. Wait. Stop making shit up in your head.

Thirty-two more seconds. Almost there.

You notice a ladybug is crawling on the wall. You watch its tiny legs. That’s good luck, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s a sign from your god. Perhaps everything will be alright.

But, you notice its back is kind of orange-ish, not a bright, cartoon red. So, is it a ladybug or perhaps some kind of poisonous beetle? The dots are too small to count, and you are too far away. You convince yourself this ladybug—or, rather, this devil beetle—actually is a sign, but not a good one.

Then, at last, the alarm. It blares.

You check, heart beating wildly, bile nestled at the top of your throat where it waits to be ejected. You find the stick and look.

There is only one line.

One single, control line. There is no second line in sight.

You hold it up to the light, squinting at it to confirm. Yes, it’s true: There is exactly one line. A negative result.

Regardless of what outcome you wanted, your heart drinks the most confusing cocktail of disappointment and relief. (Regardless.)

You mourn what could have been. You mourn something that never existed and that you don’t even know if you wanted. And relief… relief floods your veins, a sweet drug, an instant high.

You toss the stick in the trash and look back for the spotted bug. It’s gone.

So, you resume your day, your life. You’ll tell no one about these three minutes because why would you?

Somehow, you’ll remember these three minutes—the three minutes where nothing happened, absolutely nothing in your life changed. But, still, you’ll remember them.

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