6th Floor — Part Two

You go first, he said.

We both knew we had explanations to render. We owed each other that at the very least. I considered blaming mine on the pregnancy brain, but I needed him to know it was beyond that.

“Thought the conference room was on the 4th, it’s actually on the 6th” he muttered. I was lost in his eyes, his deep brown eyes. They seemed tired, yet, attempted to accommodate my presence. He grazed his chin with his palm as though he had been stung by an insect. I wanted to touch his face.

What is really going on here? My husband had treated me to a weekend at the Intercontinental, this would be my third pregnancy in two years, with no child to show for them. This time around I was more confident — but not in front of him. I still don’t know his name.

I cradled my belly and gasped. I was heading to the spa on the second floor, don’t know why I said 6th. Actually I do, but let’s keep on.

Is this your first child he asked. I was astonished, he hadn’t asked me my name but felt we had reached the point of sharing my vaginal ejection stories. Well, I said, depends on who is counting.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or not, we had not reached that point yet. We were merely strangers — strangers in between the 6th floor.

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