Inside the bathroom, Khadija sat on the toilet, her breath catching in ragged moans of pain. Memories, sharp and unwelcome, of the agonizing menstrual cramps of her teens flooded back with a visceral intensity. She parted her legs, her eyes scanning the lingering fluid, a desperate search for the tell-tale crimson. The persistent, deep muscle spasms certainly mimicked the familiar pangs. After dabbing herself with a handful of tissue and scrutinizing the result, she found the ambient illumination utterly inadequate. Remembering a trick Ian had shown her, a subtle manipulation of the ever-present AI system, she straightened her posture, focused her gaze on an unseen point, and issued a crisp voice command: “QEAI, personal light please.”

A computerized ‘ding’ chimed, and almost instantly, one of the recessed luminaires in the ceiling swelled with a brilliant, focused glow. From its heart, a soft, self-contained sphere of light detached, drifting with an almost imperceptible hum until it hovered serenely, about a foot from her face.

“Closer,” she murmured, and the orb responded, narrowing the gap to mere inches. In its focused radiance, she raised the handful of crumpled tissue, scrutinizing its surfaces once more, convinced that surely, there must be some tell-tale trace of crimson. Frustration, a bitter tang, prickled as she found nothing, and with a sigh that seemed to deflate her very posture, she let the paper fall listlessly between her thighs, her head slumping forward.

“Light away,” she requested, and the luminescent sphere zipped upward in a graceful, arcing trajectory, rejoining its source with a momentary, bright flash. Her thoughts, unbidden, drifted towards her partners, their presence palpable within the bedroom, still immersed in a joyful abandon she currently lacked. Images of the three of them, entwined in the throes of passion, sparked a fleeting desire to return, if only to project an illusion of resilience. But the unrelenting throb of her pain remained too acute, too all-consuming.

When the dam of her composure finally broke, her frustrations didn’t just spill, they surged, dragging with them a tide of other, deeper disappointments. Chief among them, a gnawing emptiness where the vibrant laughter of children should have been. The rigid weave of cultural traditions, ancient and unyielding, dictated that her home should already echo with small voices. A bitter thought, sharp as a sliver of ice, pierced her resolve: “Perhaps my mother is right,” she conceded, the words tasting like ash, “You cannot conceive because you’re not adhering to traditions.” The sting intensified with the phantom echo of hushed whispers, other Ghanaian women’s lighthearted jests she’d inadvertently caught, “A barren wife is no use to her husband.” Nonsense, she fiercely rebutted, straightening her shoulders, a defiant flame rekindling in her gut. Children or no children, her spirit, her very essence, remained undiminished, her confidence a steadfast beacon. Yet, a pang of something akin to longing, a quiet ache, surfaced when she thought of Kim, her sister-wife. She adored Kim like a sister she never had but envied her for bearing three children. It was a richness she both adored and, in her deepest solitude, yearned for.

“QEAI, please prepare a comprehensive bio-assessment of my internal fluids and transmit the full report to my private email,” she articulated, her voice a low murmur. The AI system confirmed with its signature series of resonant, cascading chimes.

“Toilet: initiate gentle vaginal cleanse, warm water, no air dry,” she instructed. The process, swift and silent, concluded within two minutes. A few sheets of plush paper sufficed for her to pat herself dry. Then, she settled back, a stillness descending upon her, a quiet lamentation. Moments later, as her fingers delicately massaged and probed the gentle curve of her abdomen, her thoughts drifted. Her birthday celebration, now merely twelve hours away, shimmered into focus, bringing a welcome surge of happier reflections. A flicker of curiosity, too, about her husband and sister wife in the bedroom room… why had they not come to check on her?

Suddenly, a gentle knock, light as a falling feather, whispered from the door. “You okay in there?” Kim’s voice, a soft current, filtered through the solid barrier.

Before Khadija could answer, Kim slid the door open with a barely perceptible sigh, a whisper of air, then paused mid-threshold to rest her nude frame against the doorjamb.

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” Khadija replied, her voice thick with residual emotion, a fragile thread. “I’ll never do that again,” she forced a laugh, a brittle, unconvincing sound. Then, summoning a deep reservoir of resolve, she rose and shuffled to the sleek basin. She gathered her long, dark curls, pulling them high and tight into a practical ponytail, then splashed cool water onto her face, before freezing, her gaze locking with her own reflection in the seamless mirror.

Kim’s eyes, keen and observing, tracked her every movement, then she slipped past, her presence a soft shift in the air, and delivered a playful slap to Khadija’s bare backside. “Yes, you will,” she countered, a knowing glint in her eyes, before she settled onto the low, contoured toilet seat. After a weighted pause, a silence that seemed to hum with unspoken thoughts, she added softly, “he fell asleep.”

Khadija turned with a tight smile, the muscles in her face strained, leaning back against the cool, unyielding marble countertop as she absently rubbed her lower abdomen. “He must’ve taken some sort of Japanese aphrodisiac. We haven’t had a night like this in ages,” she managed a weak giggle, a sound devoid of genuine mirth. Instead of responding, Kim stared fixedly at the intricate patterns of the floor tiles, their polished surfaces reflecting the subdued light, so Khadija changed the subject: “I’m gonna head home to Oakville tonight. I need an early start for tomorrow’s chaos.”

Kim jolted upright, concern instantly etching lines around her eyes. “It’s 1 AM. Are you sure you want to go?”

“No worries. I’ll leave my car here and take a drone. Tonight’s your night anyway,” Khadija replied, her voice a soft acknowledgment of their prior arrangements.

Kim nodded, her gaze tracing the elegant lines of Khadija’s dark, slender frame, pausing, on the gleaming chrome pins still meticulously arranged on her pubic region. “Come here, babe,” she murmured, extending a hand. Her palms settled gently on Khadija’s hips, thumbs tracing light circles into the tender area just below her navel. Khadija flinched, a subtle tremor running through her. “Do the pins hurt?” Kim asked, her voice hushed.

“Not the pins. Everything else aches.”

“Want me to take them out?” Kim’s fingertips brushed the cool, smooth metal.

“God, no! I can’t handle more pain tonight,” Khadija breathed, a soft gasp escaping her lips.

“Okay. Tomorrow, then.” Kim rose, her movements fluid as she sonic-cleaned her hands with a soft hum. She then pulled a plush, self-warming robe from the sanitizing rack, the fabric instantly conforming to her touch. “Let’s go then. I’ll have QEAI send an escort drone with you.”