I know you hate it when I call you “sweetheart”.
I know you don’t even like stories written by women. Or even about women. I never forgot when I made you read The Handmaid’s Tale and you told me “I don’t really like books written by women, but this Margaret Atwood is something else”. You hated The Hours and never stopped complaining. And that’s not my point. That is maybe a subject for another letter. However, I need to tell you this: this is not a story about me. This is a story about you, and me, our guests, the best dog in the world and this baby that may exist.
This is about what happened this morning.
I was complaining about having to go to class.
“But you speak English already,” you joked again.
“Yes, but if I’m not studying here, what am I doing here?”
“It’s so weird that you have to have a reason to be in Ireland.”
“I guess it makes sense for the government. All the other countries do it.”
“And at least you can work.”
“But you know, we can always get married.”
“You live here already.”
You stopped eating your toast and looked at me. “Then you can work more hours, you don’t have to learn things you already know…”
And that was how romantic you were about us getting married.
That is why I am sitting on the bathroom floor, looking at the best dog in the world, skipping a class that is so filled with Brazilians that I could learn more Portuguese than English. That is why I’m writing this letter. Actually, I am in sitting on the bathroom floor with the best dog in the world next to me, for another reason too.
Going back to stories about women and you not liking them, you hate period talk. And maybe you’ll have to hear some more about my periods, because I haven’t had one in the last two months. I just said this wasn’t a story about women — the baby could be a boy.
I had the stupid stick in the bathroom drawer today. I was going to tell you. I know the most common sentence liars tell is “I was going to tell you”. But I was. Then you proposed — you, you, told me. You made the affirmation. I’m thinking of twelve letters: twelve reasons why we are not getting married. Because I can’t accept your proposal. I can’t marry you, Connor.
The reason number one is this stupid stick. I need to pee on a stick, so that this stick can tell me my future, like some sort of crystal ball moved by some weird ecological fuel. I said my future, by the way.
Izzy, our mutt, is looking at me right now with all his fur and yellow and white and amber and coffee and copper and gold with shades of ochre and indigo and magenta and turquoise and lavender and Chartreuse green. Just kidding about some of the colours. Izzy is nearly falling asleep, reflecting relaxation, the opposite of what I feel right now.
Well, I need to go and pee on the stick right now, Connor. I only have a couple of hours to freak out with either result before the next guest arrives. I love you so much, sweetheart. I will send you all the letters together, of course. But we are not getting married.