goodness the nausea has subsided. As long as I take care of myself, I don’t faint anymore either. I’m even enjoying food again. Green vegetables and Diet Pepsi in particular. I crave it!
Leon isn’t happy about the soda part. He doesn’t voice his opinion. He doesn’t need to. His eyes go steely whenever I have a second glass.
Ingela is still the only one who knows about my pregnancy. My small bulge causes suspicious glances, especially from the girls at work, but no one except Cameron has commented.
“Hey, you’re a cute chubberonski,” he said the other day, which was rude enough. To Ingela he’d been more explicit, mentioning how I was totally “tappable” and had a “six-star rack” nowadays. Of course, since he didn’t make her keep it under wraps, she immediately shared with me.
Leon and I spend a lot of time together. We don’t discuss what will happen after the baby arrives. If he’s with other girls, he doesn’t meet them at Smother. I don’t ask, because I can’t stand to think about him with anyone else. The one girl, Marla, still comes around, but as far as Ingela and I know, he hasn’t made a move.
The few times I’ve been in his bed over the last months have been when he’s received news of his father. He wants to hide it from me, but Katsu usually texts me after their most upsetting phone calls. She’s the only source of information he accepts regarding his dad.
It’s hard to let him suffer alone. He rages over my butting in, shouts that he’s a monster, that I’m victimizing myself. I don’t object. I haven’t told him outright, but I think he instinctively knows this is temporary: once our baby is born, I won’t be intervening anymore.
On the bright side, we handle his meltdowns better. His blind fury lasts shorter, and I don’t freeze in shock from them. In addition, we’re both silently aware that the sooner we beat his regret into submission, the sooner we’ll be immersed in our own, special kind of ecstasy.
We have a routine down. Every afternoon, I get to Smother before anyone else. I’ve stopped taking days off. It would mean being away from him, and I only have a few months left the way we are. Leon must hear me when I arrive, because he’s always downstairs waiting. As soon as I enter, he saunters toward me, either from the stairs to his apartment, or from the office. Irises gleaming, he interlaces his fingers with mine and guides me to the bar. There he serves me a Diet Pepsi… in the smallest glass we own. I always thank him, not mentioning how I’ll refill as soon as he’s not watching. It makes me feel like an alcoholic.
“Hey, you. Did he let you rest?” he’ll ask in greeting, which causes me to smile. It’s not like the baby’s in my arms and claiming my attention in the middle of the night yet.
“Yes, he’s a good boy. No nausea, no pains,” I reply today.
I don’t stop him if he lifts a hand to stroke my cheek, then. Even when his caresses are born out of tenderness and hurt more than ravenous love attacks. I let him because I live in the moment and my heart soaks up his touch like balm.
I still have five months to steel my heart against Leon and settle on a plan. Every night, I ruminate over other jobs, other solutions, but no matter how I twist it, my practical side insists I need the extra money Smother offers once the baby arrives. No bar in town can match Leon’s salaries.
I look at him, now, over my shoulder. He pumps his chin up in a silent order for me to walk ahead of him up the stairs. He’s made me a salad, he says, with a new batch of dandelion leaves from Deepsilver’s only health store. I’m not hungry, but the thought of greens, especially strong-tasting iron-filled greens, makes me salivate.
It pleases him to watch me eat. And whenever I’m responsible for his delight, I’m pleased. So here I am, being cautiously positioned on a kitchen chair with a tumbler of ice water in front of me. I want Diet Pepsi.
This
Leon isn’t happy about the soda part. He doesn’t voice his opinion. He doesn’t need to. His eyes go steely whenever I have a second glass.
Ingela is still the only one who knows about my pregnancy. My small bulge causes suspicious glances, especially from the girls at work, but no one except Cameron has commented.
“Hey, you’re a cute chubberonski,” he said the other day, which was rude enough. To Ingela he’d been more explicit, mentioning how I was totally “tappable” and had a “six-star rack” nowadays. Of course, since he didn’t make her keep it under wraps, she immediately shared with me.
Leon and I spend a lot of time together. We don’t discuss what will happen after the baby arrives. If he’s with other girls, he doesn’t meet them at Smother. I don’t ask, because I can’t stand to think about him with anyone else. The one girl, Marla, still comes around, but as far as Ingela and I know, he hasn’t made a move.
The few times I’ve been in his bed over the last months have been when he’s received news of his father. He wants to hide it from me, but Katsu usually texts me after their most upsetting phone calls. She’s the only source of information he accepts regarding his dad.
It’s hard to let him suffer alone. He rages over my butting in, shouts that he’s a monster, that I’m victimizing myself. I don’t object. I haven’t told him outright, but I think he instinctively knows this is temporary: once our baby is born, I won’t be intervening anymore.
On the bright side, we handle his meltdowns better. His blind fury lasts shorter, and I don’t freeze in shock from them. In addition, we’re both silently aware that the sooner we beat his regret into submission, the sooner we’ll be immersed in our own, special kind of ecstasy.
We have a routine down. Every afternoon, I get to Smother before anyone else. I’ve stopped taking days off. It would mean being away from him, and I only have a few months left the way we are. Leon must hear me when I arrive, because he’s always downstairs waiting. As soon as I enter, he saunters toward me, either from the stairs to his apartment, or from the office. Irises gleaming, he interlaces his fingers with mine and guides me to the bar. There he serves me a Diet Pepsi… in the smallest glass we own. I always thank him, not mentioning how I’ll refill as soon as he’s not watching. It makes me feel like an alcoholic.
“Hey, you. Did he let you rest?” he’ll ask in greeting, which causes me to smile. It’s not like the baby’s in my arms and claiming my attention in the middle of the night yet.
“Yes, he’s a good boy. No nausea, no pains,” I reply today.
I don’t stop him if he lifts a hand to stroke my cheek, then. Even when his caresses are born out of tenderness and hurt more than ravenous love attacks. I let him because I live in the moment and my heart soaks up his touch like balm.
I still have five months to steel my heart against Leon and settle on a plan. Every night, I ruminate over other jobs, other solutions, but no matter how I twist it, my practical side insists I need the extra money Smother offers once the baby arrives. No bar in town can match Leon’s salaries.
I look at him, now, over my shoulder. He pumps his chin up in a silent order for me to walk ahead of him up the stairs. He’s made me a salad, he says, with a new batch of dandelion leaves from Deepsilver’s only health store. I’m not hungry, but the thought of greens, especially strong-tasting iron-filled greens, makes me salivate.
It pleases him to watch me eat. And whenever I’m responsible for his delight, I’m pleased. So here I am, being cautiously positioned on a kitchen chair with a tumbler of ice water in front of me. I want Diet Pepsi.
This
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