The answer is Vesuvio. Vesuvio, both problem and solution, fighter and arbiter. The shadows tick when you enter, the stained glass seeming to wink. The tightness below growing more urgent. You cut a look at his arms: tattooed, not as well cut as your husband’s. You look away. You wear the same dress as the night you went into labor: a black turtleneck brushing the lower knee.
The night you and
your husband drive into San Francisco to take advantage of a Mission District
made bereft by Burning Man. “No more hipsters,” he says, shifting, “for now.” Two
bars. For you, two Diet Cokes. You, already in pain but not willing to accede
to it. The plan is to go to Santa Cruz in the morning. When your water breaks
at 1:30 a.m., your first thought is Jesus Christ I don’t feel like getting
admitted today. Four contractions before you even get through the sliding
glass doors. Two more on the way to the third floor. Twelve hours later, a child.
Stand in front of
the bored bartender. Squint at the menu. Kerouac chilled here. He is a Kerouac
devotee. Red flag right there.
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