𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙵.

★
1983
New York City
Word Count:8.7k

  The hotel suite was draped in the soft glow of the evening sun filtering through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the plush, cream-colored carpet as the moon began to peak through. The stillness in the air was only broken by the sharp, insistent whistle of the tea kettle perched on the stovetop in the small, well-appointed kitchenette. You eased yourself up from the bed, your body heavy with the fullness of seven months of pregnancy, and began the slow, careful walk across the spacious suite.

Carrying your child had been a journey of joy and exhaustion. The weight of it, both physical and emotional, had settled into your bones, making every movement deliberate. Michael, ever the doting husband, had been relentless in his vigilance, ensuring that a doctor was always within arm's reach on every trip, every tour. His anxiety had only eased slightly when, just a month ago, the doctor had finally given the all-clear on a question that had gnawed at him for months.

You reached the kitchenette and stretched up on tiptoe to retrieve a mug from the cabinet, the coolness of the porcelain grounding you in the moment. The kettle's whistle grew shrill as you turned off the stove, lifting the kettle to pour steaming water into your mug. The rich aroma of tea began to fill the room, mingling with the faint scent of lemon that lingered from your earlier preparations.

Placing the kettle on a cool burner, you shuffled over to the fridge, each step a reminder of the life growing within you. The Tupperware container of lemon slices was cool against your fingers as you removed it from the fridge and placed it on the counter. The lid popped open with a soft click, and you carefully selected a few slices, their bright yellow hue standing out against the muted tones of the kitchen. You squeezed the slices into your tea, watching as the juice swirled and mixed with the water, tiny flecks of pulp floating to the surface.

Today was a rare moment of peace, a brief respite from the constant activity that had surrounded you for months. Between the doctor's frequent check-ins and Michael's ceaseless chatter about work or his frustration at being unable to touch you as intimately as he desired, silence had become a luxury.

Michael was out with his family, immersed in preparations for their upcoming press conference. The tour, set to kick off in July of '84, was a massive event, something he was both thrilled about and dreading. His concern for your safety, and that of your unborn daughter, weighed heavily on him, tempering his excitement.

Cradling the warm mug in your hands, you stepped out of the kitchenette and into the suite's main living area. The soft, white carpet cushioned your swollen feet as you made your way to the plush sofa. The room was elegant yet understated, with its clean lines and muted colors, the epitome of 1980s luxury in the heart of New York City. You placed the mug on the glass coffee table, the surface cool beneath your fingers, and adjusted the satin robe that clung to your form. Its silky material, a deep shade of burgundy, was soothing against your skin, a comfort after the relaxing bath you'd just taken in an attempt to ease the persistent aches and pains that accompanied your pregnancy.