David Bowie croons while we brush and floss our teeth, and I begin bouncing when Space Oddity reaches a climax. The mirror is flecked and my reflection giddy, while M makes all of the usual, exaggerated faces. I love him best when he unveils himself in foolishness, in monstrous contortions of his features, like a child, trying to see if hideous will stick.
I woke up sick today. Every stomach upset worries me now that I shall become unexpectedly pregnant, though I'm more in danger from vitamins taken without something to settle them, meals at odd hours or missed all together, twice the usual calories in drink. It is difficult to imagine our lives making room for a child; we're more like novelized versions of ourselves when I do imagine it, the abstract future, a readiness I can't imagine anyone ever really having, only assuming or pretending that they do.
Though this may be what I tell myself.
He's turned out the lights and so must I now turn off, too.
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