#I QUIT MY JOB TO BREASTFEED MY BOYFRIEND DRIVER#
Every weekend, I go dancing and drinking, and the few weekends we’ve shared out and about, it’s been more like a babysitter and designated driver at my side than a boyfriend.
#I QUIT MY JOB TO BREASTFEED MY BOYFRIEND HOW TO#
He’s twice divorced and likes to spend his free time at the fire station trainings where he learns how to save people who have fallen through broken ice or had a heart attack. I’m selfish and wild and not even legally divorced yet. He’s ready for it, and a breakup would make more sense. My eyebrows twitch which only happens when I’m over caffeinated or nervous. He nods. Now I’m backing away, pressed up against the fridge, and my hands shake. “I need to talk to you,” I say as I take the bottle out of his hand and place it on the counter. I wrapped myself in a sheet, embarrassed of what I might’ve done or said while blacked out, worried if he used protection, but too shy and immature to ask about any of it. Once I realized what had happened, I resigned myself to the fact we’d done it and there was no turning back. I woke up the next morning naked in my bed next to him naked. The first time we had sex in January, I’d been blacked out. Mark arrives with a large blue bottle of SKYY vodka. I’m a woman who plants a bomb and then waits nearby to make sure the thing goes off. On the phone, I asked him to come over for dinner. I don’t know what I’ll say to Mark when he arrives. I’m set to graduate in May with my bachelor’s in creative writing. We met on December 12-just three months ago. Perhaps he’ll take the news well, but I don’t really know him.
Mark’s 36 years old and has a good job as a software engineer. I wring my hands, pace my apartment’s small kitchen, and check the clock again.
Congratulations!” Most of the time, I shrink away from touch, but I allow her to hug me. She must know from my look that it’s positive. Nola, the coworker who said I should run to Walgreens to get a pregnancy test when I confessed earlier that I was late, bursts into the bathroom. “What the hell are you going to do then?” I think there were images of children playing outside as well, but I’m not sure-only the chorus remains. I can’t recall anything else from that lesson, but the song that played. The video from our eighth grade health class spins in my head, Let me live. Raised as Catholics, attending private school, we’d been taught that abortion was murder, a sin. My friend, who I’ve known since fourth grade, replies, “Shit. “I’m pregnant,” I whisper into the phone while hiding in the bathroom at work.
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