“We are so fertile.” Giggle, giggle.
“I didn’t even track it. We said we would just figure it
out.”
“I said ‘we’re Dominican, this won’t be a problem for us.’.”
“I just felt off and knew right away I was pregnant. I got
so angry at the nurse because she wouldn’t test me, she said it was too early.
But, now look, I have my baby.”
“I know, we are so fertile too. We got married last October
and here we are!” rubbing her pregnant belly.
Snippets of a conversation I overheard from the cubicle
behind me. I wanted to crawl in a hole and die or at least hide my face in
shame. I wanted to scream at them for their hubris, remind them how they got
lucky in the roulette of genetics. I wanted to run from the room or wish my
ears to stop hearing. I wanted to do a lot of things not deemed appropriate for
a workplace. Mostly, I wanted to disappear, to un-hear what I heard, to not
feel that old familiar sting of tears behind my eyes, to stop holding my breath
until the pain and the conversation subsided. F*ck you and your stupid fertile
selves!
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