She is thin and bony, young (like in early 20s), and she’s pregnant; and she’s my girlfriend although the baby is from her previous boyfriend.
We go out fairly regularly though sometimes we’ll stay in and paint the flat. Cans of white paint lie spread around, the walls are half done, but the step ladders are up and ready for us continue.
Occasionally she picks up the phone to dial someone but she doesn’t say who. I assume it’s her doctor or sometimes I suspect it’s her ex. Her ex was black.
I don’t really want to be in this relationship but somehow I fell into it. Elaine doesn’t agree with it. Still I carry on with the girl despite not having a clear answer on her calls.
And before her ex there was another boyfriend in short order, so I feel like I could be temporary too.
“You don’t look pregnant,” I told her, the last time I felt her belly. But even then I couldn’t be sure.
We are sitting in my half painted living room. She’s on the plastic covered couch, her scrawny white arms dangling. Then she picks up the black receiver of a phone on a little round coffee table.
She’s going to make another mystery call.
She cups her hand over her mouth as she talks but I suspect it’s her doctor this time.
When she’s done I ask, “Who were you calling? Your boyfriend?”
She’s on the edge of the couch, her bony legs hang over the side.
“No,” she replies, “he’s dead.”
Immediately I feel like I should reach over amd place my arm across her shoulders, but her dangly arms are in the way and I think better of it.
Instead I think that she’s carrying her dead black boyfriend’s child and I will be responsible for helping it into this world. I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
Elaine would not think I’m ready for that either.
Photo by Ksenia Chernaya via Pexels. Painting ‘Jessica, red wine and the L word’ by Jack via Flickr.
