Saturday, beach briefly, tears and distance as Shae's had dreams of holding our baby, though he is the first to say we're too young, with too much ahead of us to constantly live in our parents' homes. The child will not have the life we'd want for our children. We decide that we'll inject some ink under our skin in remembrance, in grief and mourning of what we wish we had the means to keep. I'm convinced, can feel, just KNOW that it's a girl, and I think of Babar's little elephantgirl, Flora, small and befrocked. Perhaps, perhaps in time, but no money for it now.
He asks me in the evening if I want to make love that night, phrasing it that way, quite literally, his lips and breath on my ear, his arms wrapped tight around me. And I tell him, the midst of the act, that I want to feel him come deep inside me, as it can do no more harm than's happened, and afterwards we shake and shudder, grip tight and desperate.
He's got grey hair at his temples. Just a few, but they are there, constant reminders of the stress no 20 year old should go through. My hair falling out in clumps, shower revealing how I feel even though my words cannot.
*
Finally, relief, some woman kind enough to admit sheepishly that I can't be seen here on my island that looks like a fish for two weeks at the very least - cowed when I tell her I appreciate the goddamned motherfucking honesty, the first I've received since I started making these dreaded phone calls.
And Shae, oh Shae, stepping up and calling centers, clinics, baby-killing arenas in his area for me; but they don't do these ghastly procedures there. I get an appointment, the roughest exam I've ever had (is it necessary to jam a speculum with such force that my ass slides back on the table?), and a referral - to vie for sometime elsewhere. Finally an appointment for another clinic, out here on my island, Saturday morning at 8 am.
"Do not drink, eat, smoke, or chew ANYTHING after midnight."
I can't even have a cigarette to stop my shaking on the car ride there.
He asks me in the evening if I want to make love that night, phrasing it that way, quite literally, his lips and breath on my ear, his arms wrapped tight around me. And I tell him, the midst of the act, that I want to feel him come deep inside me, as it can do no more harm than's happened, and afterwards we shake and shudder, grip tight and desperate.
He's got grey hair at his temples. Just a few, but they are there, constant reminders of the stress no 20 year old should go through. My hair falling out in clumps, shower revealing how I feel even though my words cannot.
*
Finally, relief, some woman kind enough to admit sheepishly that I can't be seen here on my island that looks like a fish for two weeks at the very least - cowed when I tell her I appreciate the goddamned motherfucking honesty, the first I've received since I started making these dreaded phone calls.
And Shae, oh Shae, stepping up and calling centers, clinics, baby-killing arenas in his area for me; but they don't do these ghastly procedures there. I get an appointment, the roughest exam I've ever had (is it necessary to jam a speculum with such force that my ass slides back on the table?), and a referral - to vie for sometime elsewhere. Finally an appointment for another clinic, out here on my island, Saturday morning at 8 am.
"Do not drink, eat, smoke, or chew ANYTHING after midnight."
I can't even have a cigarette to stop my shaking on the car ride there.
