I
met Carl while working at Inman News Features. He liked to curse at his
computer on deadline. Every morning we walked to Semifreddi’s for coffee and a
seeded sourdough baguette. He made me laugh then as he did now. I needed that.
I was nervous. I was never good with discussing my sexuality, never comfortable
at the prospect of revealing my body. It took me weeks – months, if I think
about it – to feel comfortable naked around my boyfriend. It was because I was
me and there really was no way around that. You could only go through.
Back
to that burrito. Chicken, as I recall. I’d asked them to leave off the salsa. I
was toying with a tortilla chip when my mind went into a skid. It wasn’t
because my period was late. It wasn’t because I felt physically different. I
just felt less alone.
I
took my lunch to go, walked home, called Carl.
Can’t be. I can testify. I watched you
walk out with that goodie bag of pills and condoms and lube and whatever else
they stuffed in that paper bag.
It
wasn’t foolproof.
Maybe you screwed up on the birth control.
I
was starting to get pissed. Carl, amateur contrarian itching to turn pro.
Look, Landa. I’m giving you options.
That’s all.
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