Signs of the Egg

It was a short walk to the museo Galileo—across the piazza, south to the lungarno, then a couple of blocks downstream—but even before she passed grim Dante at the basilica, an icy sweat bothered the small of her back, her underwear was climbing up, and her best pumps began to bite. All early signs of the egg. 

Whitney Bitteredge was ovulating. 

For three or four days now, as her estrogen went to full amplitude, she would inhabit a body electric: Afternoon light hurt, she was hot then cold, slacks pinched at the waist, anything but silk or cashmere prickled, she was up all night ordering things on the Interweb, her patience wore to a tatter, she didn’t eat, there were migraines, her breasts were tender, she had difficulty concentrating (more than the usual difficulty), she drank more—these and a great twist of more exotic disturbances, all of which would vanish like a jinn on day fourteen.

The Italian Novel


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