You hold her hand in the waiting room, nervously venturing glances at the other hollow eyed denizens of this last desperate prophylactic. She squeezes your hand, nestles her head on your shoulder, achingly trusting, depressingly young. You’ve taken her out of school today and you hide that old familiar hard under the bustle of her mini, imagining tomorrow, fat black bags and a crooked walk giving her away to the sixth form girls, who’ll quirk a grimace and cross their legs at the memory.
Somewhere far away they call her name and she reluctantly climbs from your lap, turning to kiss you once, full on the lips, as you look down on two fat brown areolae, nestling beneath her tube top, like hot bronze coins. She stands up, suddenly defiant, heedless of their judging glances, walks tall as she can to the ward doors, hardly looking back. You’re so proud of your little girl.