WHISPERING HOLLOW!

“You’ve got to go to the store for me,” she says.
It’s early morning and she has menstrual cramps.
There’s no mistaking the urgency in her voice. She is in pain, and I must feel some of her pain. This is the big red one, and it’s bearing down on her.
“Go to the store. I need Whisper Ultra,” she says from the couch, television on, but she has that thousand-yard stare that tells me this is somehow all my fault.
I can and must redeem myself by going to the store for her.
She is clearly not a planner.
I ask her if she needs anything else, and she shakes her head _ not a firm no. The rules are that I should bring her some sort of treat, a candy bar, a chocolate, something to make her feel better and show her I am thinking of her.
“I’ll be back,” I say, pulling on a jacket. I close the door behind me and smile at her through the windowpane. She doesn’t smile back.
The store is nearly empty _ the only customers are two guys arguing over whether to buy a loaf of brown bread or garlic twistys. This is a good thing. Buying sanitary towels for your woman is a potentially embarrassing thing, best done under the cover of darkness. It is why they give you that illusionary black polypack.
Satisfied that no one is watching, I make my break for the feminine-hygiene aisle. On my way, I spot the rack of condoms and recollect my first experience with drugstore embarrassment _ 16 years old, and I had to have them, even though I didn’t yet have anyone to share them with. The cashier took one look at my red face and trembling hands and went easy on me, packing the condoms in a brown paper bag with my other purchases: Chiclets, a bottle of Thum’s Up, six eggs and a snack-size bag of chips. Whisper was a whole different beast. Back then there was the dim hope that some girl would take pity on me and let me use the condoms. Now all I want is to make my woman happy, keep her from bleeding all over the bedsheets and remind her that when this is finished that I am so devoted to her _ so devoted that I buy her Whisper at all sorts of odd time. I am earning points, and when it is over, my good deed will not go unnoticed. The few times I have suggested she stock up, she crinkles her nose at me and says she thinks she has some.
To which I reply, “Do you think or do you know? Because last time I had to run out and get them, remember?”
She smiles and tells me not to worry. So we don’t buy them when we are the grocery store, where we’re supposed to heap the cart full of those embarrassing personal-hygiene, anti-this-and-that things because you have enough stuff to cover for you.
Then it happens. After days of bloating and hot flashes, cravings for pasta and coffee, it comes _ the period _ and not only is she in pain, but she is unprepared.
When I arrive at the store, I go straight to the sales personnel and tell him what I want without looking as much in his eyes. I don’t want to be the guy to make his day _ the dude who came in early morning and bought only Whisper. So I look around. My choices are limited: replacement flint for a Zippo lighter, a packet of Marlboro Reds, some double spearmint flavoured Orbit and few bottles of soda. I drop the stuff on the counter and fish around for the money. The guy at the counter puts it all in a brown paper bag and then stares at the packet of Whisper for a moment. Then he looks at me, and I can see this smile creep across his face as he runs the scanner over the packet. At this point, I have been gone for almost twenty minutes, and I am running dangerously low on the what-too-you-so-long meter, which every twenty-eight days can and will without warning turn into the where-the-hell-have-you-been, I-am-in-pain meter. He tells me how much, and I grab my change and pick up the packet. The cashier smirks as he tells me to have a good day. Part of me wants to turn around and ask him if it looks like I’m preparing for a good day. But that would only delay my stay at the store further.
When I get home, she is still on the couch. The television is blaring some infomercial. I smile and wave the bag at her as I step through the door.
“What took you so long?” she asks.
I mumble something about traffic, which she knows is bullshit but lets slide because she is focused on the bag. She gets up and grabs the bag from me, opens it and exclaims, “Soda? You bought soda?”
I shrug, preferring the simple explanation, which is none at all. She wouldn’t understand how important it was that I buy something else besides Whisper, that even now appearances matter.
But things take a turn for the worse when she plucks the packet of Whisper from the bag and stares at it.
“You bought small? What the hell am I gonna do with small?”
“You can’t use them, just for today?” I ask.
“Not unless you want them to shoot right out of me,” she snarls, waving the packet.
I make a face and hold up a hand.
She is in pain, and I have failed her. Not only did I buy soda, but I have come back with the wrong size Whisper.
“I didn’t know there was difference,” I say.
This is my second mistake. Of course, I know there is a difference, just like I know Tampax and panty liners are not the same thing as Kotex.
And she knows I know this.
“You didn’t pay attention. You were gone all that time and you come back with these?”
She shakes the packet at me. I avoid mistake three by not suggesting that perhaps she should buy her own Whisper or that maybe she should plan for these things and have supplies on hand.
“I am sorry,” I say. She skulks back to the couch, leaving me with my smoke and the packet of Whisper Small.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Go back to the store. Regular. Get the Regular. That’s all I want. They are in a blue packet.”
“Everything’s in a blue packet.”
She lets that one slide.
I grab the car keys and pull on my jacket.
“Anything else?” I ask.
She gets up and comes to me and wraps her arms around my waist. And for a moment I am her conquering hero again _ out to right my wrong and deliver.
“I love you,” she says, smiling. ‘And don’t forget to return these.”
She slips the packet of Whisper Small into my jacket pocket.