I sit in the kitchen illuminated by the neon bleeding through the filter-glas. Methodically, I unfold the crumpled paper bag I bought from my street doc with the funds from that corporate extraction job, and pull out a canister labeled ESTRADIOL VALERATE in bold letters on a label affixed imperfectly in a ring around one end.
Popping the latch on the auto-injector embedded behind my bicep, I take a slow drag from a can of Rip It Energy - I've already been up for 24 hours, what's another eight? Before the caffeine and taurine can make my fingers jittery I load the new vial of estradiol under the amber glow of the "low supp" LED.
Last month's used compostable bioplastic container gets tossed into the empty pizza box lying half open under the fingerprint-smudged glass of the window.
Using my palm, I ensure the new supply is firmly seated, then click the locking mechanism down, flush to the ceramic surface of my upper arm. Eyes closed, flexing and hyperextending each finger until the familiar, numb tingle subsides.
Everyone - and I mean everyone - is tired of me referring to the clean, fluorescent kiosk outside the transportation hub as my "street doc", but it doesn't stop me. My partner politely tolerates it. It just sounds cooler than "my insurance pays for this stuff".
