This is Southern California

Their house was white. Squarish. And shaped in a “u”. With a large courtyard in the center. And a pool. Turquoise. Flat. Motionless. A few palm trees were planted, strategically, at each corner.

They were coltish. The two of them. Tall, angular, thin, tanned. My father worked with the mother. The daughter had just come back from her father’s. She had her suitcase opened up on the bed. The clothes were in neat rolls. But her underwear was folded and placed on top. And there were large blood stains in the center of each one. She told me that she had gotten her period, for the first time, at her father’s. And her eyes narrowed. And she looked at me suspiciously. I didn’t really understand much about periods. Her long perfect brown hair swept over her shoulders. And then she told me about how she’d seen David Bowie in concert. And that David Bowie had one brown eye and one blue eye. I’d never been to a concert. I can’t say that I even really listened to much at that age. I was both fascinated and repelled by her. I wanted to be her and I also wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Her intensity scared me. I’ve been thinking of her and that house and her mother a lot lately. And I cannot really understand why. I don’t even remember her name. And it was just a brief moment a long time ago. But something about her frankness, something about her openness about her own body and the fact that she didn’t really know me made me want to get closer to her, like you do when you are close to the edge of something, to see if you might fall off. I wonder if I’ve been thinking about this, in some strange way, because I again feel like I’m flirting with some kind of danger–something intense and scary and unknown. That is, getting pregnant again. And as I draw closer to the time, the optimal time, when I know that it is possible that I could get pregnant again, I am both repelled and drawn to it. What if it works out? What if it doesn’t. Do I want to take the chance again? Wouldn’t I rather just run away? Wouldn’t I rather adopt? Have I properly mourned the loss of the pregnancies that weren’t? Have I properly dealt with the possiblity that I won't be able to have my own biological child? Do I need to?