"_ ____ ___"

"You know," I said, breezing past Andrew, up the stairs, and into my apartment, "if I am pregnant, I'm going to kill myself."

I said it in my usual way, my cruel way, like a hurricane with its "oh-I'm-just-passing-through" attitude. I was only interested in the wake of such a statement, because this early, I was too numb to feel anything properly.

But I got no vehement reaction. He just stomped his boots on the welcome mat to shake the snow once he came inside.

The apartment needed cleaning. I hadn't been staying here for the better part of a week, preferring Andrew's cramped studio to my spacious two-bedroom. My roommate left town on Christmas break already. I'd soon be following.

I rattled off my list of chores to a tired-eyed Andrew, who did not take a seat on the sofa, but trailed me to the kitchen where I filled the sink with hot water. I started scrubbing, still filling the dead air with words, meaningless words, knowing he was sitting behind me against the wall, but not replying it. By the time I turned around, I had cleared a chunk of dishes, and Andrew had slouched completely.

His chin was pressed into his chest, his arms flat on the floor, his legs splayed.

"Can you help me dry these?" I asked cheerfully.

"No."

I left the dishes were they were, left him lying there. I pulled the chairs out from the table, swept the floor, sorted my pile of papers, put DVDs away, shook out the rugs, and then stood in the hall and stared. He was still slouchy.

I went to my room, and scooped up the paper lotus guarding the top of my printer. Andrew made it for me when we first started dating. It was made of folds upon folds all held together by a tiny piece of string. I carried it on an open palm and sat cross-legged on the floor net to him.

"Stop being slouchy," I tucked myself into him, nestling my head on his shoulder, placing the flower on his chest. "You're not allowed to be slouchy."

He took one look at the lotus, and his eyes got red. He's too pale for crying not to show.

"What?" I can pretend to be surprised, too, in my cruel way. "What's wrong?"

"I dunno."

"Something must be wrong."

He shrugged the barest half-shrug of a shrug.

"Do you actually know what's wrong, but you just don't want to tell me?"

"Maybe."

"Tell me."

His eyes hadn't left that lotus flower. "I just don't know what we're going to do."

"Dying's always an option."

"It's not."

"What else is there?"

"Not that."

We stayed there, on my kitchen floor, for however long, while I thought of baby names, and the best ways to go about killing myself.

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