by Bobby Dimitrova
I’m not ready to be a father he told me the other night as we laid in the dark stillness of our bedroom, and I, being a foolish, naïve girl, I dreamed about a love house somewhere in California with round corners and wooden floors and big windows and a huge library and enough space for all of my red high-heel shoes in the closet. I expected him to get excited when I asked What if... but he only became more tired after being the perfect IT guy for another day in the London City, riding the Tube and reading the free papers on the way home to a suburb of Victorian houses and circular intersections. My body tells me that soon it’ll be time for me to conceive – something that he couldn’t or wouldn’t understand – and if I get pregnant now I will not hesitate for a moment; I told him that, and he did the math and he pointed out how EXPENSIVE it’ll be, how HARD it’ll be, how EARLY it’ll be. Not the usual pillow talk I thought and I cried, then I argued and finally agreed: we’ll wait because we love each other and we have a plan. He wished me goodnight and asked me if I’m all right. Nevermind, my dear I answered, I don’t care; I’m really bad in exact sciences anyways.
Bobby Dimitrova, 26, was born in Bulgaria and currently lives and studies in London. She loves cats, sweets, and her boyfriend, and is dreaming of being married and making writing her career. Click here for a peek into her life.