chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing

shadows_of


See the Shadows of Innocence and Sanity

a shadow of the day


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chicks, pants, showing it all, dancing
shadows_of
From Nisha.
When?:

With less than a month before the baby is due, Emily is still in that dazed state of pregnancy, cradling and rubbing her stomach like she cannot believe she has life inside her. She says the boy has the longest legs in the world, and he has been stretching them out through her side. She smiles at me with that strained happiness she has had for the past month, and gets up to waddle slowly around the little room I have here at Kunst School for the Arts. I stay stretched out on the one bed in the room, drumming my nails against my sternum in syncopation with her every step. Step rat a tat tat step rat a tat tat. Not even trying to keep the beat, but finding it anyway.

“When are you going to finish his blanket?” she asks softly after a moment, absently caressing the rounded curve of her belly. “I feel like you started it a whole lifetime ago.” My eyes follow her progress until she stops beside the one window in the room, blinds pulled tightly shut against the over-bright sunshine of the end of winter. She flicks one slat up and, squinting, peers out at the milling crowds of students leaving campus for the coming week of spring break.

“I did,” I reply, turning my attention away from her, and bring the pile of material and thread and needles out again. “I just got a little sidetracked, that was all. Teaching and everything, you realize, right? It feels like the time is passing so slowly... I just did not think about how much longer you have until you have Colin Preston.” I shook my head with a smile and started stitching together the little fuzzy scraps of fleece for her son’s blanket.

“When will it be over, Nisha?”

I did not bother assuming what she meant by that. When will what be over? The pregnancy? The blanket? That was a month, to say the least. Even so, that was not any reason to ask that question. Did she mean Dinah and the fickle way she loved? It was not my place to say anything on that. Anything else, metaphoric or metaphysic, figurative or otherwise, was beyond me. I paused a moment, unsure of whether she wanted an answer, before hearing the soft rat a tat tat of her fingertips against the window sill.

“God, I hope it is soon,” I almost did not hear her breathe.

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