Free Divine Design by Mary Kay McComas

fifty-five on Thursday night Meghan was totally dressed, totally petrified, and totally nauseous.
    Her forehead and the back of her neck were moist with perspiration. She was sure her face looked as pale as chalk. But she was as ready as she’d ever be. She had cleverly chosen a moss green evening dress that was lined in taffeta. In two pieces, the flowing blouson top had a drop waist and side hip band trimmed in pearls. The skirt was comfortable and extremely becoming with its elasticized waistband to conceal her pregnancy and the pleats to flatter her figure.
    An unsavory saltiness seeped into Meghan’s mouth as she waited anxiously for Michael to arrive. At this point in her pregnancy she knew all the signs of an imminent eruption and made a mad dash for her crackers. Not in their usual place, Meghan cursed the lovable Mrs. Belinski and started flinging open cupboards and drawers as the doorbell chimed.
    “Oh Lord,” she moaned dejectedly, swallowing a mouthful of saliva, hoping it would stay down—hoping everything would stay down—as she went to greet Michael.
    Throwing open the door, she instantly and swiftly retraced her steps back to the kitchen, blurting out, “Come in and sit down,” as the contents of her stomach bounced erratically between her abdomen and the back of her throat.
    A bewildered Michael stepped cautiously into Meghan’s cheerful apartment and quietly closed the door. Entering the living room, he guessed she had disappeared into the kitchen, because from around the corner came a conspicuous barrage of crashes and clangs and resounding clatter. Through the din he thought he heard a string of low-spoken expletives, but when the clamor finally ceased, Meghan walked calmly and slowly into the room and leaned serenely, and to Michael’s eye very seductively, against the wall.
    Aside from the fact that she was a little pale, more than likely from nerves, she looked ravishing, and Michael’s heart began to beat at a rapid-fire pace.
    “Hi,” she croaked softly, giving him a nervous smile. “Are you ready to go?”
    “Sure … unless you’d rather have a drink here and relax a little bit first. We have lots of time,” he offered obligingly.
    “A drink?” she asked blankly, her mind-over-matter delusion needing her full concentration.
    “Yes, a drink. Usually it’s some sort of fluid … in a glass or a cup. I’m not picky,” he said graciously. “Water is fine. Or tea or coffee. Even vegetable juice.” He paused, watching her curiously. “Anything but oyster juice,” he said. “I’m not overly fond of oyster juice.”
    “Oyster juice?” she pronounced, her beautifully green and expressive eyes staring at him woefully.
    “Yeah,” he said, baffled by her strange reactions. “In fact,” he went on, “about the only things I absolutely refuse to put in my mouth are oyster juice, cow tongue, and sushi.”
    “Oh Lord, Michael!” she spat out in disgust as she raced into the bedroom.
    After several minutes of kicking his heels around in the living room, completely disoriented by the situation, Michael wondered if he ought to check on her—maybe apologize for something.
    Hanging over the toilet, a disgruntled Meghan tossed what she hoped was her last cracker and sighed deeply.
    “Meghan? Are you all right,” came Michael’s deep baritone voice through the door.
    “I’ll be fine,” she called, jumping up dizzily to turn on the shower, which would muffle any noises she made. “Just go, Michael. Go into the kitchen and drink anything you like,” she said, and then as an afterthought added, “If you see anything you’re not … overly fond of, just … put it in the garbage,” she managed to say before she belched reminiscently.
    She assumed Michael had gone in search of a drink, because he didn’t say anything else. She stretched out on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor until the nausea and light-headedness subsided. Slowly, she brought herself back to a standing