When I talked to him that weekend, he explained I couldn’t have been pregnant because we hadn’t had sex. He knew because he and his dad sometimes hired a bull and watched it work. He’d had sex himself, in the past. He’d like to again, he added. I couldn’t trust myself not to, I knew, and I didn’t want to squander another series of days and nights worrying how I’d feel moving to a squat house with hodgepodge furniture, or wheeling my baby through Super Valu as I bought meat, eggs, Comet, Gerber products, Windex.
Debra Monroe writes about growing up and longing in a small town.
