Jun 30, 2010 15:37
I've been sitting in Derek's driveway for a really, really long time with my feet elevated to lessen the swelling in my ankles. I know this conversation has to be had, and I'd rather do it in the privacy of what used to be our home than to do it in the middle of the hospital. I'd like to put it off a little longer-a lot longer. Actually, I'd put it off forever if I could, but it's not an option.
Slowly, I swing my legs out of my beater VW, and I quietly press the door closed. I pull my tight t-shirt down over the monkey and subconsciously run my hand over my bump, giving everything a minute to reposition and settle. I pull my pants up a little and make sure everything is covered. I've been refusing to buy maternity clothes, and it hasn't been that bad so far. All of my pants are so low waisted that it works out.
I question my decision to leave everything in the car so I won't be disturbed or spend 20 minutes looking for my misplaced and forgotten car keys. After a minute, I know I'm just stalling, so I turn and make myself walk to the door. I really, really don't want to do this.
After another minute of hesitation, I quietly knock on the door, half-hoping he won't hear me. God, I want a cigarette.
derek,
aubrey