Thursday April 6, 2017
The Birth House
“You’re not going to get pregnant and have to quit or something, right?” I looked down at my hands in my lap, clasped tight.
“I’m not sure if you’re allowed to ask me that?” I wish I hadn’t phrased it as a question. I wish I’d said, “You’re not allowed to ask me that.”
I wonder about my friends who are men, who are also finishing graduate school, who will also go on a series of good, bad, demoralizing, funny, awkward interviews. I wonder about these men, fine men, good, kind men, and if a man in a purple tie might ask them about their future babies?
“Thank you for your time. We’ll be in touch.” A clammy handshake.
“Thank you,” a knot in my throat, brow slightly furrowed, I go into the bathroom and change my shoes.