Pattering through my sullen house lighting incense and candles and preparing for the bath I'm having because I'm not having any[one] else. My rather sideline semi-disappointment with this state is quickly drowned in nacent contemplation of orangy bubbles, of fluffy rich brownies, and of milk, milk, milk. Of the bookstacks I spent my lack of money on. Of the smell of lavender and sage, my second favorite but the easily procurable.

Heartwrendingly, stupidly, the recent arrival of my menses is worse in that it means more that I am not pregnant than... well, anything else. I am not pregnant, and chances are I have only one working ovary, given that I only mensturate every other month.

I am not pregnant, and this ought to be a good thing, really. I am an absent minded professorial shopgirl with a glimmering horizon of baby credit and an eight-hours-of-footwork job, which requires heavy lifting and lots of concessions to shortsighted republican bosses. I eat paychecks paper-first, wolf them greedily and too fast from my very hands. I live in a crowded two bedroom apartment, and my cats go to the vet more often than I go to the doctor. I flitteringly attend community college. I have no room for a child. I cannot afford a child.

And yet...

The very small chance that there might have been one, that there was actually an opportunity for real live bearing of rabbitic brood, well... there was humming, let me tell you. There was silent, secret joy. There was... well, if there's one thing I know pumpkins, it's wanting.

There was stone-supple Want.

I'm sure it's just a hormone thing. I suppose it will pass with time.

I suppose.

<<agé chose>>

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