For the entire duration of our illicit relationship, Sasha had been with another man.
She’d been dating him for two years, and things had gone stale.
Earlier that day I’d found Sasha, whose name I’ve changed here, swinging in the hammock outside my apartment’s front door. She sat down on my bed, spread her hands in an arch, feeling the mattress behind her as she leaned back. A chopping breeze settled in place of the air conditioning unit that never worked when I needed it most. I’d long ago relinquished whatever role love played into this relationship, whatever it was, because I understood what we were not, which was together. Sasha and her boyfriend hadn’t slept together in about a year. ” I accused, my voice cracking through our silence.
She always made me giddy, causing a flutter inside me every time our eyes met. She had someone else, and I was alright with that, so long as she pretended to like me, too. It would take a few years and more failed relationships of my own to understand how this could happen, that sex was not a direct correlation to love, and that the absence of the act was not necessarily a failure of the relationship. The room was still and her stare was precious and tormented.
When she messaged me to say she believed it had been a boy, I smiled, at odds with how I felt: miserably nervous and concerned for her body, and the fate of our relationship.
But, deep down, I still wish I’d been a part of the process.
I was a spectator, her sideline, listening from the outside about how she and her boyfriend no longer slept together. Just had to go see a doctor, that’s all.” “Just a doctor?
Then I was the one who made her feel guilty after she slept with me enough times to negate the excuse of a one-night stand. ” I asked, growing annoyed that she was holding something back. “Just a doctor.” I clapped my hands free of dust, looked at Sasha and wondered if she and her boyfriend had had a falling out. Was this my chance to steal her, to remove the asterisk hanging over us?
The boxes of books I was holding nearly fell from my hands. “Come on, Ken,” she whispered, and looked the other way.
“Hey there,” I said, hoping she’d notice my cool indifference. * * * ince that day I have thought often about the child Sasha and I conceived.* * * ears later, I sat at the breakfast table with Alexa, a new girlfriend whose name I’ve also changed. Alexa had said she was sure she would pursue the pregnancy. “We’re nowhere near any stability, and don’t you want to travel?