uncomfortable, unsafe, wrong. But I persevered.
And soon I liked it.
I was free.
Sometimes, Adam would lean over and kiss me while he was driving. His tongue probing my mouth.
I hesitated.
“You’re driving. Don’t.” I giggled.
I’d never giggled before, had I? But I didn’t pull away. I didn’t get out of the car. I didn’t even reach over and snap my seat belt into place; this was dangerous. Instead, I leaned toward him as closely as I could, hoping this would enable him to still see the road. But all and all, I gave
him
the choice, the control. I turned over my free will to Adam Fishman, and it made me feel like a precious, fragile china doll.
The problem was he didn’t quite see it the same, did he?
I can still hear his male voice, urging, demanding.
Give me your tongue. Let me feel your tongue,
he’d whisper into my mouth. His torso stretched across the seat, his hand pressing against the back of my head, telling me what to do.
And I would do it.
Mr. Johnson spoke only one more time, as I was getting out of the backseat of their truck. He had pulled right in front of the bus station, nearly up on the curb so I would have only a few steps, walking directly through the glass doors and safely inside. Although, to tell the truth, the inside of the bus station didn’t look all that much better than the outside.
“Stay out of trouble,” Mr. Johnson said. It was the same tone he used to tell me to put my seat belt on.
It was a fatherly thing to say. I don’t think he meant anything in particular by it, but it suddenly struck me as funny. Stay out of trouble. Aren’t I in trouble already?
Isn’t that what it used to be called, when a guy got a girl pregnant?
He got her in trouble.
As if she had very little to do with it, a passive bystander. Now
she
was in trouble, but he was not. He had only gotten her there; the rest was her problem.
“I will,” I told him. “Thank you both so much for the ride.”
Then just before I step inside, I look up at the sky. It is threateningly dark. I wonder if it snows down here, but it doesn’t feel cold enough. It is damp and chilly, and I begin to feel a low dull cramp, a pleasant heaviness that makes my heart quicken.
T he bathroom of the Baltimore bus station is disgusting. Beyond disgusting. Not only do I have three layers of toilet paper folded over the seat, but I am squatting with all my leg strength, while holding the stall door closed with one hand, since it seems to be missing a lock. Where the lock may have once been is a perfect circle, like the porthole of a ship, except that the only thing I can see out this window is a row of dirty sinks strewn with wet paper towels. I am holding on and trying to release at the same time.
This takes so much effort that I almost don’t see it.
Red.
Like the swirl of color inside a marble.
Blood.
A swell of relief surges through my body as I stand up.
I rub my belly, my womb, as if to thank her for forgiving my stupidity yet another month. Does this really make the fourth month in a row that I made unkept promises to myself? My immense gratitude and another set of renewed vows to take better care of myself last only long enough for me to realize that I suddenly have a great urge to call Adam.
I want to call Adam.
Just to let him know,
I think.
There is some logic in this, I rationalize instantaneously. The way you might scratch an itch that hasn’t yet registered in your mind as irritating.
I need to hear his voice. And now I have something good to tell him. I’ll sound cheerful and upbeat. I’ll have good news. Good news for him.
I got
“it,” I can hear myself saying already. I rehearse my words in my mind, and I feel excited just thinking about it. I walk out into the lobby of the station, and I don’t even wait to find a more private spot to make my call.
I check my cell phone for reception bars as I force out any thoughts that this is a bad idea, that if it doesn’t go well, I will feel
And soon I liked it.
I was free.
Sometimes, Adam would lean over and kiss me while he was driving. His tongue probing my mouth.
I hesitated.
“You’re driving. Don’t.” I giggled.
I’d never giggled before, had I? But I didn’t pull away. I didn’t get out of the car. I didn’t even reach over and snap my seat belt into place; this was dangerous. Instead, I leaned toward him as closely as I could, hoping this would enable him to still see the road. But all and all, I gave
him
the choice, the control. I turned over my free will to Adam Fishman, and it made me feel like a precious, fragile china doll.
The problem was he didn’t quite see it the same, did he?
I can still hear his male voice, urging, demanding.
Give me your tongue. Let me feel your tongue,
he’d whisper into my mouth. His torso stretched across the seat, his hand pressing against the back of my head, telling me what to do.
And I would do it.
Mr. Johnson spoke only one more time, as I was getting out of the backseat of their truck. He had pulled right in front of the bus station, nearly up on the curb so I would have only a few steps, walking directly through the glass doors and safely inside. Although, to tell the truth, the inside of the bus station didn’t look all that much better than the outside.
“Stay out of trouble,” Mr. Johnson said. It was the same tone he used to tell me to put my seat belt on.
It was a fatherly thing to say. I don’t think he meant anything in particular by it, but it suddenly struck me as funny. Stay out of trouble. Aren’t I in trouble already?
Isn’t that what it used to be called, when a guy got a girl pregnant?
He got her in trouble.
As if she had very little to do with it, a passive bystander. Now
she
was in trouble, but he was not. He had only gotten her there; the rest was her problem.
“I will,” I told him. “Thank you both so much for the ride.”
Then just before I step inside, I look up at the sky. It is threateningly dark. I wonder if it snows down here, but it doesn’t feel cold enough. It is damp and chilly, and I begin to feel a low dull cramp, a pleasant heaviness that makes my heart quicken.
T he bathroom of the Baltimore bus station is disgusting. Beyond disgusting. Not only do I have three layers of toilet paper folded over the seat, but I am squatting with all my leg strength, while holding the stall door closed with one hand, since it seems to be missing a lock. Where the lock may have once been is a perfect circle, like the porthole of a ship, except that the only thing I can see out this window is a row of dirty sinks strewn with wet paper towels. I am holding on and trying to release at the same time.
This takes so much effort that I almost don’t see it.
Red.
Like the swirl of color inside a marble.
Blood.
A swell of relief surges through my body as I stand up.
I rub my belly, my womb, as if to thank her for forgiving my stupidity yet another month. Does this really make the fourth month in a row that I made unkept promises to myself? My immense gratitude and another set of renewed vows to take better care of myself last only long enough for me to realize that I suddenly have a great urge to call Adam.
I want to call Adam.
Just to let him know,
I think.
There is some logic in this, I rationalize instantaneously. The way you might scratch an itch that hasn’t yet registered in your mind as irritating.
I need to hear his voice. And now I have something good to tell him. I’ll sound cheerful and upbeat. I’ll have good news. Good news for him.
I got
“it,” I can hear myself saying already. I rehearse my words in my mind, and I feel excited just thinking about it. I walk out into the lobby of the station, and I don’t even wait to find a more private spot to make my call.
I check my cell phone for reception bars as I force out any thoughts that this is a bad idea, that if it doesn’t go well, I will feel
Similar Books
