Ethan lit a cigarette and held onto his knees as he stared forward at the shelves in his room. It was 7 pm and he was just waking up. He had already vomited, shit, smoked a joint, stared at sad messages from the girl he got pregnant, and looked at photos of her and his ex on the internet (not together of course). He had been fired from his work three weeks earlier for having fucked the boss’s assistant in the girl’s bathroom and oops, someone saw. He was proud of it, though: conquering the girl at work he’d been crushing on, getting her partially naked and sucking his dick next to a clogged toilet, and of course cumming at work (let’s face it, even the solo version of this is exciting). His boss called him into his office, talked about sexual harassment and asked for the keys to the office. He melted into her chair and her words were dampened by an invisible blanket. He could barely make out her expressions because the window behind her was so bright. When he noticed the murmurs had stopped he pulled the keys out of his jeans, slapped them on her desk, and smiled to himself as he pivoted out of the room.
He left anything of his at the office and he chased the girl he loved to her hometown in rural New York where he tried his best to charm her family and make her love him. It had been a month since their last encounter so when Selma picked him up at the airport it was casual. They didn’t kiss for the first few hours, but they always had a problem connecting. Selma was trying to look pretty for him, and Ethan was trying to act like he wasn’t ecstatic to be in her world. Selma’s mother had planned a barbecue for Ethan’s arrival, for him to meet the grandparents and neighbors and Selma’s friends from home, but no one came. Turns out the girl isn’t as coveted as Ethan had thought, but it made him love her more.
That night the stars pierced the sky and they walked to the top of an old ski hill near Selma’s house. She was quiet and Ethan was talking more than usual, and while they sat above her little city she looked into his eyes and told him she was pregnant. They cried together and thought about how beautiful their baby would be and Selma told him she imagined moving to Mexico to raise it and Ethan said he could go back to work and they kissed and Selma looked at him seriously and whispered, “You know the timing’s not right.” And they both cried and Ethan held her in the grass. “I know.”
There are unspoken things that happen when you’re pregnant. Your boobs are sore, your sense of smell heightened and unbearable, you’re constantly tired, your body doesn’t feel like your own. And there’s an energy that lingers around you. When you sleep at night it’s there, when you wake up it’s there, and it’s the baby, it has to be. For Selma it was strongest when she was sleeping alone, in the nights before Ethan arrived, before she did any sort of urine test, when she knew someone was with her and she knew it was the baby. And it scared her.
With Ethan there being pregnant was almost fun. He joked about them eating so much together and he indulged in her late night cravings for pizza or pickles or fruit roll ups. And more importantly she didn’t feel as alone.
They had nothing to do while he visited her so the two of them and their unborn baby took the convertible into the mountains where the air was clear and the sky was bluer than you could imagine. After a few hours they stopped at an old cemetery where they made love behind the biggest grave. Franklin Hearst, May 8, 1798 - September 15, 1842. Ethan came inside of her and she threw her underwear in the woods and let his juice drip down her leg, her skirt hiding enough of the damage. They sat in front of Franklin’s stone and the wind blew around them. “I think it’s a girl.” “At least she’s still with us.”
After a week of playing house and fantasizing about a life that wasn’t theirs, Ethan went back to his mom’s in Texas and Selma went back to the city to claim her body back as her own.
They didn’t talk very much when they were separated. Ethan gave her the money, she made the appointment and didn’t tell anyone when she drove herself to the clinic. While Ethan was nursing a hangover, Selma braced herself for protestors to emotionally block her from what she needed to do. But in a city that type of thing doesn’t exist. The street was quiet and lined with trees and the receptionist was sweet. A DVD of Friends was playing in the waiting room, only no one had started it so half the theme song played on loop while a yellow screen showed a picture of the cast with the typical options: “Play” “Episodes” “Behind the Scenes” “Selma, are you sure you want to do this?” “RIP to your baby girl.”
The nurse called her in and it felt ordinary. Her fourth urine test to confirm the baby, an overview of what was to happen (take one pill today, then the remaining in twenty four hours). “Will you have someone to take care of you at home?” Selma nodded, Selma lied. They ultra-sounded her uterus, they didn’t show her the image of her baby, they didn’t make her listen to the heartbeat, and when she took her first pill the nurse did not ask if she had chosen baby names or if she had already had a sermon to commemorate her little girl.
The next night she sat alone in her bed. She wrote a letter for the baby, she lit candles, she put on dreary punk that yelled “Everyone I love is dead” and she took the pills wearing a pure white dress.
Within hours she was covered in blood. The toilet was constantly the thickest, deepest red and she held onto her body every time she had to empty it more.
She slept uneasily. The moon was too bright and her body ached. Early in the morning she saw a girl standing in the corner of her room. She didn’t face Selma and she kept her head hanging. Her low blonde ponytail was straight and Selma admired how put together she was. As if she lived in DC and worked for the government or a bank or maybe an investment firm on the lower east side. She was nothing like Ethan or Selma, and Selma wondered where the light hair came from. She knew it was her baby. “I’m so sorry,” she sat up in her bed. “I promise we’ll be together again.”
The bleeding wasn’t done until the third day when she pushed out the fetus. She sat on the floor of her white bathroom with her nectar all around her and held her dead child in both hands. It was just physical matter at that point, she couldn’t see a head or hands or anything but her tears and blood pooled on the ground and she whispered “I love you” and her body shook and she flushed it down the toilet.
Ethan hadn’t contacted Selma. He wandered Austin and called his high school girlfriend certain she would make him feel better. They had sex while her dad was at work, and he wondered if this is what it feels like to be 28. He decided he’s going to start dealing weed and he held onto her body that he used to worship but now he did not love nor care about and was only a familiar vessel, and he cried because he wanted to keep the baby.
That night Ethan pretended to be Bukowski and he sat alone at the bar drinking whiskey on the rocks. It was empty, even for a Wednesday, and after a few hours a girl wandered in and sat down next to him. She ordered a dry martini and the bartender laughed at her because the place was a dump, but he made it and slid the drink across the counter. Ethan offered to pay and she thanked him.
Her eyes were green, her skin was pale and her blonde hair was pulled into a low ponytail. Ethan thought how she was definitely not his type. She was in college and studying marketing, and when Ethan joked about what that even means she jabbed him back about his shabby appearance. They talked until the bar closed and Ethan hugged her and told her he was happy they connected, some bullshit line like that, but he really meant it. She pulled away and with skin glowing and her hand gripping his arm she said quietly, “Everything is going to be ok.”
Ethan called Selma to tell her he loved her. Selma told him she hated him. They didn’t speak again until he was back in New York City and they ran into each other on a night they were both feeling reckless. Selma made him jealous with the bartender. Ethan smashed wine in the street. They smoked a joint between the subway cars. They rolled around Central Park at night, under the cloudy yellow city sky. The fought, and then he was inside of her in the dirtiest bathroom in lower Manhattan. By morning they were at her house, in her bed. She was in his arms as they drifted into sleep and they were both happy to not be alone. The sun was coming up and the traffic was already loud outside of her window and they clung to each other nervous that they’d wake up and the other might be gone. Have you ever felt so invigorated and terrified by one person at the same time? While the city was stirring they were floating away. And it was most certainly love, but not the type you’re taught to admire.
andulkaphoto
ellievsbear
dededos
tangentwithtanner
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
romaincrisis
