As I write this letter, I hear Deepak Patil, our new Air BnB guest, watching a movie in his bedroom. When I heard dreadful screaming coming from his room, he told me it was a biopic about a socialite opera singer who is known for being a terrible singer. It stars Meryl Streep, he told me. Nonetheless, you will soon realise this by yourself. So here I am, sitting on the kitchen table, listening to appalling opera.
The Stick Of Destiny has confirmed I’m pregnant. And this is where letter number two begins — that is the second reason we can’t get married. However, I can’t help but wonder if I should even tell you about this. When it was just a fear, a hunch, I didn’t want to concern you. Now, I still don’t. Because I’m pregnant, but I can’t be pregnant, not right now.
You know, I still remember the day we met. You were going to rent the room we now have guests in and you were conducting possible roommate interviews.
Do you remember what I told you? I immediately told you that conducting roommate interviews was a stupid idea, because everyone will say that their biggest flaw is being too much of a perfectionist. And you asked me what my biggest flaw was.
“Well, I can just fly back home at any time I please and leave you with rent to pay,” I was so proud of my answer. I thought you would never call me.
Then you decided to show me your room one night after we met in the elevator coming back from parties. We’d both been to different parties but we were both equally drunk. Of course, you know all that, you were there. You know how I ended up bringing my homework to the free nightstand, all my lessons preparing me to take the Cambridge English: Proficiency Exam, all the lessons on synonyms and antonyms, vocabulary units, phrasal verbs, idioms, my flash cards. You know how I still make mistakes with “on” and “in” because you tend to take my flashcards out of my hands when I’m studying in bed. Then you threw them to your side of the bed and never found them again.
And you never used the fact that I was Brazilian to brag about your girlfriend. You let me tell people. You let people ask me where I was from. You never pushed it — you allowed my rhythm, my awkward attempt of fluidity, in all of this. And that includes renting the room in (or on?) AirBnB. That was my idea. And you just went with it. I should write this more often in those letters, but I love you. Maybe that you don’t know so much. Maybe that I need to remind you.
There must be something I can do. Abortions are illegal in Brazil too, by the way, but some organisations find a way. Some of them send you drugs in the mail from countries where abortions are legal. If you have enough money, you can find an illegal clinic. The more money you have, the better clinic you can afford. How common is that in Ireland? In Brazil, if you have a lot of money, you can travel to a country where it’s legal. In Europe, I imagine it’s even cheaper going to a country where it’s legal. How much is an abortion anyway? It’s weird figuring this out without you.
I should really tell you. I’ve been in Ireland for just a year now. Let’s see if I change my mind when the opera stops.
So much love you can’t imagine,