A hand sweeps across the mirror, clearing the dense mist settled over it, a mist of steam and perjured guilt: mine.
I watch the reflection of my fingers rest on the base of my neck—the absence of a rock on the third finger no longer an abject eyesore. They leave a smudged, reddened trail where they have rubbed against my clavicle, before moving upward where a pulse beats, pleasant in its singularity. Another finger rubs lower lip, a hereditary chin and a frown crosses my brows at the thought of how hereditary it might be.
I think of my mother, whose DNA courses through me and has now traced its way onto my reflection—a chin that frowns—and wonder whether love is as inbuilt as I have been led to believe by the generations of women preceding me. Because all I can think of is how my body will change, the remnants and impossible incongruities of a single night. That I might learn to love this fetus within seems alien to me because what if love isn’t an inborn trait? What if I feel nothing but revulsion for the life growing within my belly? That will one day suckle from my breasts?
I touch them gingerly now and wonder if they’ll retain their attractiveness after they grow to an embarrassing size with the milk destined for the small mouth of the life within. What do I know of this thing, anyway?