Anything

They’d spent weeks talking about it, then not talking. Then talking in circles some more. Pam knew Jim was right - there’d never be a perfect time. It would always be a leap of faith. Whenever.

‘I guess at some point, you just have to say, damn the torpedoes,’ she sighed.

‘Wow. How romantic is that?’ he replied, sounding less bemused than he probably intended. ‘Kind of like making a baby with General Patton.’

Regardless of how positively the discussion began, inevitably everything she’d never done would swirl through the air between them. She’d never finished school; never driven a convertible; never learned to use a potter’s wheel. She’d never been to Paris.

‘And, I never want to be that guy, Pam,’ he’d apologize, retreating into the fog of compromises he couldn’t ask her to make.

She was aware she was turning him into a pretzel, making him feel ashamed of his selfishness for saying he wanted it, guilty of insufficient enthusiasm for saying he could wait. When he signed up for the journalism class he’d been dancing around for months, she was relieved. Not only was he - at last - giving it a try, she took it as a sign that he wasn’t ready for the singular focus she feared a baby would require either.

Still, the truth remained obvious: he practically seemed like a child himself whenever the subject of a baby was broached. He’d say anything is possible, you can do anything, we can make anything work, I’ll do anything you need. Anything. He’d hold her hand and run his thumb over her palm, as if his optimism might quite literally rub off on her. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes and tuned out everything but his voice, it did.

************

Finally, it came down to impulse. One morning, she’d simply flung the half-empty plastic disc into the bathroom garbage. She’d almost laughed out loud, realizing that piece of pink plastic nestled in the trash amongst the discarded toothpaste boxes and used Q-tips was all that stood between her and the rest of her life. More than heartfelt vows and drunken relatives’ awkward toasts; more than the simple matching gold bands they both wore.

This would make them irrevocable. And that was the one thing she was sure she wanted. Without condition, without looking back. The alternative was unbearable.

That evening – once it had sunk in - she told him what she’d done. She carefully explained that these things don’t usually happen instantaneously; it could still take weeks, months even.  As if he were the one needing reassurance. He nodded, doing his best impression of someone nonchalant, but his uncontainable smile blew his cover. For a moment, the way his eyes went soft and watery made her forget all her reasons why not.

It didn’t happen that first night.

‘Here goes nothing,’ he’d laughed nervously between kisses, as she’d fumbled, shaky-handed, to undo his belt buckle.

It undoubtedly could have been that time; but somehow, she knew it wasn’t.  She was certain, however, two days later. On a morning like so many others, half-awake, his familiar warm solidity above her in the still dark room, moving achingly sweet and slow. He moaned that sleepy way he did then, his mouth pressed into her neck, and that was it. She’d felt the pulsing flood of it, deep inside her. She’d known.

She whispered in his ear right then (because a moment like that should be marked): love you. I love you. I love you. His reply was just her own murmured name, and that marked it too. She’d clung to him and they’d stayed locked together for a very long time, even for them, past the ringing alarm, until the room was filled with light.

They’d been late for work that day.

************

Barely two weeks later, she came out of the bathroom with another piece of portentous plastic in her hand. Putting the newspaper down on the coffee table, he calmly stood and gathered her to him, resting his head on top of hers. He simply sighed okay into her hair.

Her face still flush against his chest, she’d asked if he wasn’t surprised by how quickly it had all happened.

‘Nah, it was bound to happen sooner than later…what with all the dirty military talk and…’

‘Seriously, you’re not scared?’ she pulled back enough to look up at his face, not wanting him to deflect.

‘Fuck yeah, I am,’ he’d admitted. Pausing, as if measuring his words, he continued, ‘I’m just more happy than scared.’

‘You can tell me, you know.  If you’re freaking out,’ she pressed. ‘I mean, this is like diving head first into the deep end.’

‘Hey…Danger’s my middle name,’ he kissed her forehead and sunk back down to the sofa, taking her with him.

‘In fact,’ he added, ‘let’s put that on the list of baby names. James Danger Halpert.’

‘James Danger Halpert…Jr,’ she concluded.

He laughed as she curled into his lap, and it sounded like relief. He felt like an island beneath her, the current breaking all around them.

She’d never been to Paris. She’d never done so many things.

 Alien Solar System

During the first couple of months, when she was queasy and exhausted and edgy, sleep was Pam’s salvation. She spent more time unconscious than she’d ever done in her life.

She couldn’t stand the smell of most food; even the aroma of the hot chocolate Jim made when she woke up oddly craving it one unseasonably balmy April morning gave her dry heaves. So, she avoided the kitchen. She couldn’t stay awake at night long enough to watch much TV or movies; she couldn’t even muster the energy to pretend to watch anymore, just so she could lie on top of him and feel the vibration in his chest when he laughed. She was too distracted to concentrate on reading, except for trashy magazines whose antagonizing photos of skinny models and starlets did little to lighten her mood. Even drawing became a rare occurrence. Once her spring semester class ended, her sketchbook sat untouched beside their bed, beneath a stack of unnerving baby books.

There wasn’t much left to do, besides sleep.

Jim suggested that in her limited waking hours, she research a trip they could take, after the baby was born.

‘We could go to Paris,’ he volunteered.

‘With a newborn?’ she shot back, as if he’d just proposed a jaunt to a hostile alien solar system.

‘Okay, not right away,’ he redirected. ‘But when Jr’s a few months old maybe. They just sleep all the time then anyway, right?’

‘Do you have any idea how much stuff you need to lug around to travel with a baby?’

‘Far as I know, they make babies in Paris, Pam. I gotta believe they make diapers and baby food and all the other gear too.’

She rolled her eyes in utter annoyance and he let it go.

************

Jim was patient. Relentlessly so. There were times when she’d look at him and think: you did this to me, and now you get to play the supportive, long-suffering husband, and everyone says how great you are? Fuck that. She knew it was irrational. He wasn’t playing anything. He hadn’t done this to her and she could hardly fault him for not being the one with the uterus. On the contrary, she was quite fond of the equipment he did bring to the equation, even if she hadn’t shown it much love lately.

He cooked for her, ran her errands, rubbed her back, her feet - if he could get his hands on it, he’d rub it. Despite the dramatically dwindled frequency with which she felt inclined to rub anything of his in return. When they’d once gone an entire week with little more than a chaste kiss goodnight, he’d made a lame joke about going cold turkey. She knew he meant it as a compliment, but it had felt like a thinly veiled dig too. He’d taken the hint. Still, no matter how carefully he tried not to wake her, she knew she wasn’t dreaming late at night when she’d hear his stifled grunts, followed by the sound of rustling in the tissue box. She knew it wasn’t enough; it wasn’t just release he wanted, he wanted her.

He rode out her irritable periods, even when she said some pretty awful things to him. Sometimes she couldn’t believe it was her own voice, saying that, to him, even as the words were coming out of her mouth. He seemed to take it in stride, as if it was the price he had to pay. She always felt horrible about it later and apologized, but in her worst moments – though she didn’t like to admit it - she kind of agreed with him.

‘My boobs are huge,’ she blurted in disgust one morning, as they dressed for work and a favorite – and formerly roomy - blouse strained closed across her increasingly voluptuous chest.

‘I know,’ he’d smiled, wolfishly wiggling his eyebrows in an attempt to diffuse her distress. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure it’s very nice…for you. This must all be a lot of fun for you.’

Her breasts, in fact, had become a sore spot, literally and figuratively. Even her softest bra touching them could be uncomfortable and she found herself swatting away his hands when he was just being affectionate. In bed one night, she’d actually yelped when his lips closed innocently around her nipple. She knew he was just doing what came naturally, the same things she’d always liked before. She’d say she was sorry, and he’d say, no, no he was sorry, but her reaction wasn’t exactly subtle and she could tell she’d bruised his feelings.

Having her expanding anatomy become a lightning rod for comments at the office didn’t help matters. Dwight’s unsolicited – but highly detailed - tutorials on ‘the biology of maternal lactation’ were innocuous and mostly concerned goats anyway.  They drove Jim crazy all the same.

‘Maternal lactation? What the hell other kind is there? I don’t want him even noticing my wife’s boobs. Or comparing you to livestock. Is that so much to ask?’ He’d pout when she laughed off Dwight’s latest advice on ‘efficient teat handling.’

She found Michael’s remarks much more offensive. When, staring straight at her breasts, he proclaimed them ‘magnificent’, as if this was standard break room chat, she saw Jim squirm in discomfort. He’d valiantly attempted to change the subject to some absurd sales strategy he’d spent the better part of the morning trying to get Michael to forget about. But even that wasn’t enough to derail the mammary-related roll he’d begun.

‘So beautiful. Like a Madonna. And I bet they look even better without clothes.’

He’d looked expectantly at Jim, as if she weren’t standing right there, mouth agape. Jim had not, of course, responded; but he apparently couldn’t help grinning like an idiot either. It had been confirmation enough for Michael, who proceeded to wink knowingly at him.

‘Oh relax, Pammy Mammy,’ Michael chided, intercepting the death glare she’d shot Jim. ‘The female body is a glorious vessel. We’re all adults here …hell, ask me anything you want about Jan’s boobs.’

************

But, even at her crankiest, she was crazy about him. Christ, she loved him. She always had, but now the intensity actually made it hard to breathe sometimes. He’d walk out the door to play basketball or go to his journalism class or some other equally treacherous destination and her chest would seize in panic until he returned. And despite all indications, and Jim’s repeated reassurances, she worried about the baby. Nothing specific, just free-floating omnipresent anxiety about all the bad things that had ever happened to a developing baby anywhere in the world, at any point in time.

‘We were just at the doctor’s,’ Jim would reason with her, his level tone not hiding his barely suppressed frustration.  ‘He said everything’s fine. Why would he lie?’

Common sense had nothing to do with it.

Sometimes she’d wake with a start in the middle of the night, convinced something was going to happen to him. To the baby. To her. To all of them. It would be almost sunrise before she’d settle down enough to go back to sleep, burrowed into him, his arm snugly encircling her. She’d hold his big hand against her barely burgeoning belly and finally drift away, his drowsy gravelly voice in her ear, whispering soothing things she knew he was just making up.

He wasn’t going anywhere. But Paris seemed further and further away.

Sweet things, salty things

Right around the time Pam started to think she’d made a horrible mistake, the tide abruptly turned. It was probably more gradual than that, but it seemed like she simply woke up one morning with exponentially more energy. As if something within her had simply let go. If she didn’t know better, she’d have been convinced Jim had begun slipping something into her tea.

She started drawing again, doing studies for a mural for the baby’s room. It would be a farm scene, mostly because it would work for either sex and she was good at depicting animals. Plus, Jim suggested that if she messed any of them up, she could just invent some species to claim it was and no one would be the wiser.

‘Is it going to be an homage to that night we spent at Dwight’s place?’ Jim asked, surveying her sketches of barns and fields, spread out on the floor of the tiny extra bedroom that was currently a warehouse for wedding gifts they’d never unpacked (she’d lived this long without a fondue pot.)

‘Maybe,’ she retorted. ‘But with less Mose.’

The way he flipped his head back and laughed as he crouched down for a better look made her realize how long it had been since they’d had a moment like this, since she’d seen his face light up. She’d missed that. Leaning on him for support, she lowered herself beside him and slid her arm down around his back. She pressed her lips to the warm spot where his hair brushed his collar, lingering there for a second so she could feel his pulse beating beneath his skin. 

******************

 Another thing that suddenly returned with a vengeance was her appetite.  

Sweet things. Salty things. Random things, like bacon, which she’d previously been able to take or leave, became a near obsession. Other arbitrary foods became aversions. Broccoli. Peanut butter. Anything that tasted or smelled like peaches. Unfortunately, that included her body lotion – the one Jim loved so much that when she applied it before bed, he claimed to be considering cannibalism as an alternate lifestyle.

But in more promising news for him, pastry and pork products weren’t the only things she suddenly found herself craving.

Bored, she put down her needles and looked over at him. His hair was a mess, even by his standards and he hadn’t shaved in at least two days; he was wearing a ridiculous old souvenir t-shirt that was both so cheesy and threadbare that she’d long plotted its mysterious disappearance; his bare feet were propped up on the coffee table, and there was an ugly bulbous bandage on the big toe he’d recently massacred playing in new basketball sneakers. And God, he looked good.

Weekend afternoons had always been prime time for them, but she was well aware that her recent lack of interest had left him reticent. He’d become somewhat shy about making advances at night in the dark these days, much less in the middle of the afternoon in broad daylight. She shimmied closer to him. He smiled vaguely and shifted slightly into her, but just kept working. She ran her fingers down his forearm and cleared her throat. Loudly.

Finally, he looked quizzically up at her. Leaning forward so her mouth was right at his ear, she put her hand over his and guided it to her breast.

‘You can touch me, you know,’ she said softly.

He let his fingers mold familiarly around her, but didn’t answer right away. She pulled back to look at his face.

‘Anywhere?’ he asked at last, a slow grin forming in his eyes and spreading, like a kid taking a minute to compute the unexpected offer of all the ice cream he could eat.

‘Everywhere,’ she replied, steadily holding his gaze before adding, ‘I wish you would.’

And he did. They were back.

She’d read about increased hormones and blood flow to certain areas during pregnancy, and maybe that was it; whatever it was, she felt like someone had set her rheostat on high and left the building. It seemed inconceivable that just a few weeks ago, she’d been lukewarm. Now, just his fingers sliding up her thigh or his lips grazing the back of her neck, and she was practically teetering on the edge.

‘This is almost too easy,’ he sighed, coming up for air, his chin resting on her newly rounded belly while she recovered.

He looked punch drunk happy and maybe a little impressed with himself. They’d just gotten home from work and barely made it to the bedroom. His tie still hung loosely around his neck.

‘Sorry,’ she panted. ‘Next time I’ll try to make it harder for you.’

‘Not possible,’ she heard him mumble against her skin, as he resumed kissing his way back up to her mouth.

 ******************* 

She might have become ravenous, but sleep now eluded her. Late at night, she’d get a second wind and painting her mural or reading about the stages of fetal development did little to ease her restlessness. Knitting only made it worse.

It was almost midnight when she stood wrapped in a towel at the bathroom door, looking at Jim. He was reading, half reclining against a stack of pillows on the bed. He’d just begun wearing reading glasses; somehow the prospect of fatherhood had made him feel old enough to finally admit needing them. They made him appear especially focused on his book.

The hot shower she’d just taken, estrogen overload, the fact that he was wearing only his boxer briefs - leaving little to her fervid imagination - all conspired. He was long and lean and slightly suntanned from their previous weekend at his brother’s summer beach rental (though she’d, of course, managed to maintain her baby white beluga appearance.) Oblivious to her attention, he shifted a bit and an inch of pale skin just below his navel, blocked from the sun by his swim trunks, was exposed.

That did it.

‘Good novel?’ she asked, settling down next to him with her head on his shoulder.

‘Yep,’ he replied absentmindedly, without even lifting his eyes.

She ran her foot along his calf, cuing him to lose the book. No reaction. Taking a different tack, she began circling her fingers over his chest, wandering here and there, lazily heading south. Still, nothing. She tilted her face up and touched her lips to his neck, letting her hand descend further. And further.  He just turned the page. Now she was sure he was toying with her; she knew him too well.

No book was that good.

The urge to touch him was overwhelming. She slipped her hand – slowly, deliberately - under the elastic and wrapped it gently around him. He was already heavy and swollen before she’d even begun to fondle him. She could hear his breath catch faintly but distinctly in his throat.  

The jig was up.

He calmly marked his place before closing his book and laying it on the night table. He removed his glasses and carefully placed them on top. It was only then that he turned and smiled at her.

‘Oh, I’m sorry…can I help you?’ he asked, as if just noticing what she was doing. ‘Lose something down there?’  

‘Mm, that’s okay,’ she grinned back at him, never stilling her hand. ‘I think I already found it… kind of hard to miss.’

‘Nice,’ he actually blushed. ‘It’s just that attitude that got us into this mess in the first place.’

Taking advantage of momentarily flustering him, she cupped him now, strumming lightly with the tips of her fingernails. He groaned, closing his eyes as his head fell back and his hips pushed involuntarily forward.

‘Jesus, Pam…so not fair,’ he half laughed, half pleaded, his voice thick and raspy.

Whatever else he wanted to say dissolved into a low incoherent moan as she bent down to trace that sliver of untanned skin with her tongue – god, she’d wanted to do that – before letting it follow her hand’s path lower. 

That’s when he seemed to lose all interest in pretending.

It wasn’t long before he was urgently pulling her back up onto his lap, face-to-face, kissing her hard. Then her towel was being untangled and peeled away and he was reaching between them. But before he could even check to see if she was ready for him, she was bracing her weight against him, lifting herself up and back down. She gasped sharply as they collided. It didn’t hurt; it just felt different. Everything did these days.

‘Okay?’ he sounded slightly alarmed, as he held her hips still for a second.

She just nodded, yes, god yes and found his mouth again. She was more than okay, with him buried achingly deep inside her, all around her, buoying her. And when he breathed I love you as they both came undone, they were in that place where it was still, always, just the two of them.

Afterwards, she finally slept. She dreamt they were floating on water. Looking up into the nighttime sky, she saw city lights and silhouetted trees on either side of them. Jim held her hand as they passed under glowing stone bridges.  

 It looked like Paris; or, what she imagined Paris must look like.

A Boat on the River Seine

‘Woa,’ Pam blurted. ‘Showtime.’

Jim rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head on his elbow. He pushed her t-shirt – his actually, hers no longer fit – up over her belly, so he could get a better view of the evening performance. The baby’s preferred time to practice its tumbling routines was at night, when she lied on her back to go to sleep. They’d watch mesmerized, trying to identify the protruding shapes that emerged from the depths, beneath her taut skin. Elbow, hand, foot, strange alien limb. 

Jim provided the running narration.

One day it went: Wow, look at him go. I’d say this solves the mystery of the mother’s identity…this kid is a total dorky dancer. 

The next: Anything you’d like to tell me about your relationship with Dwight, Pam? Cause that is one kung fu fetus you’ve got in there. 

Frequently however, the comments focused on the baby’s superior pre-natal athletic moves: Danger would alternately be working on his jump shot; swinging for the fences; or going deep. On a particularly active night, all three.

It was a source of endless fascination.

The baby was suddenly very real. Conjured one morning before the sun came up, just the two of them. And now, this. Turning cartwheels. Dancing.

********************

Pam’s rapid growth wasn’t necessarily a source of amusement, however. Especially now that her feet were so swollen that only one pair of her shoes was bearable. Luckily it was an unusually warm fall, so she’d mostly resorted to wearing leather flip-flops everywhere. Much to Angela’s horror, that included to the office.

‘This isn’t a beach, Pam,’ she’d mutter under her breath. ‘Being pregnant is no excuse to flaunt your naked flesh.’

‘What’s her problem?’ Pam would vent to Jim. ‘You’d think I was walking around here topless.’

‘Ignore her,’ he’d advise, glaring at Angela. ‘Someone’s just overcompensating for a foot fetish, if you ask me. Or maybe for Dwight’s. Ew.’

The subject could rear its head at any time. When she ransacked their closet to find something to wear in the morning. When she dropped her charcoal on the floor while doing a homework assignment and had to summon Jim to retrieve it. Often, it would be after they’d just finished a meal.

She looked down at her plate and realized she’d just consumed more than him – a previously unimaginable feat. She’d inhaled not only the huge plate of waffles he’d set in front of her, but most of his bacon as well as her own.

‘I’m enormous,’ she said assessing her girth.

‘Nope,’ he shook his head and began clearing the breakfast dishes.

He knew the drill.

‘You’re only saying that cause you feel guilty about how ginormous this baby is…you were, what? Like nine pounds and four feet long at birth?’

‘Four and a half. And the doctor said you haven’t gained too much weight,’ he reminded her. ‘But, more important, Kelly says it’s all up front - which is apparently the cutest way to be pregnant. You really should pay more attention to her.’

‘Fat and bloated,’ she ignored him, wondering when she became one of those ridiculous women who equated looking pregnant with being fat.

‘Not fat and bloated either. Round and…’ he searched for the right term ‘…uh, juicy…no, luscious. Yeah, let’s go with that today.’

‘Ugh. That’s gross. Like over-ripe, rotting fruit.’

‘Pam, you are so not gross. You’re the opposite of gross. That,’ he motioned to the picture of a sleek, hard-bodied actress on the cover of a magazine she’d left on the table, ‘does nothing for me. You know I love that you have real breasts and hips and all that woman stuff. Now you just have …more.’

She was not convinced; Jim was hardly unbiased.

‘Didn’t Michael call you a fertility goddess, just yesterday?’ he offered.

She was trying to forget. ‘Yeah great, like the Venus of Willendorf.’

‘The Venus of who?’

‘The Venus…it’s this prehistoric carving my figure drawing teacher showed us …Google it sometime, you’ll see the resemblance.’

‘Good, I’ve always had a thing for prehistoric women.’

‘Right.’ 

‘How little you know me, Pam…Betty Rubble was my first real crush. She was kind of your predecessor.’

When she just rolled her eyes, he tried a different approach

‘Hey, look - even Kevin said you’re the sexiest pregnant woman he’s ever seen.’

She regarded him skeptically.

‘And if there are two things Kevin knows, Pam…. it’s Sting and sexy.’

She contemplated that thought for a moment before answering.

‘Not sure that counts as two things.’

‘That’s my girl,’ he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, before loading the dishwasher.

She had to hand it to him; even she was getting sick of having this conversation on a regular basis – and she was the one who invariably started it. She made a mental note to act more interested when he talked sports statistics and more sympathetic when he lamented the tyranny of needing to shave every morning.

She owed him.

 *****************  

She’d never really given much thought to how their bodies fit together. They simply did. Now, however, almost as soon as they discovered a comfortable position, they’d need to make adjustments.

They were intrepid explorers, navigating the possibilities. By this point, him above her posed geometrical challenges; the slippery logistics of standing in the shower had long since become too risky; and she quickly tired being on top, since she couldn’t lie down on her stomach - on either the bed or on Jim. Best now was when he wrapped himself around her from behind. Surrounded by him, it was like being weightless, rocked on the waves.

Still, she knew he worried.

‘Jim, it’s okay…’ she said softly, trying not to sound impatient when he moved maddeningly gently.

It was obvious he was straining to hold back. When they were together before, he’d always been so present. She missed being tangled together without hesitation. She missed the feeling of him, all of him, filling her completely.

‘You don’t have to be so…careful,’ she reassured.

They were laying in bed, not yet past roaming hands and insistent mouths, the flush of anticipation. And already, she could sense him tensing with caution.

‘It’s just…’ he rolled slightly away, ‘the baby’s so big now and he’s right there – it’s like he can see me or something.’

‘You mean, like this giant piston coming towards him?’ she frowned, as if picturing it. ‘That could be scary.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You know that’s crazy, right?’ she couldn’t help laughing a little.

‘Fine, whatever,’ he sighed resignedly. ‘As long as you don’t take back the giant part.’

She pulled him back towards her, held his face and whispered, ‘You’re not going to hurt me.’

‘Now, c’mere and scare this baby already,’ she commanded, before kissing him hard and long and deep.

She left him no choice.

******************

‘I can’t go to Paris now – I can’t fly this close to my delivery date,’ she said.

She was lying on the sofa, head in his lap, supposedly watching the evening news. One of his hands rested on her belly, the other was absently wrapping strands of her hair around his finger.

‘I know. I’m just saying we should plan something…we can take Danger with us. Or leave him with your mother. Or mine. Somebody’s mother.’

‘I’ll be breast-feeding.’

‘Fine, when you’re done then. I mean, you’re not going to be one of those women who nurses the kid until he’s old enough to unbutton your shirt, right?’

They’d recently had a speaker from La Leche League at their childbirth class, whose presentation included pictures of a woman nursing a child that had to be at least three years old. 

‘That is wrong on so many levels,’ he’d muttered to her under his breath, as the photos flipped on the screen. ‘I wonder if Michael’s mother…. could explain a lot.’ 

‘Anyway, what about your freelance assignment?’ she challenged. ‘I thought covering basketball season was kind of a try-out?’

‘We’ll go after that. Before your summer classes begin. Or when they’re done. Whenever you want.’

‘Summer classes, huh? That’s…dubious.’

‘Why? The baby will be a few months old by then.’

She wasn’t sure whether he was being positive or oblivious. Either way, it was exasperating.

‘And who’s gonna take care of him while I’m in class?’ she demanded. ‘Or doing my homework?’

‘Come on,’ he looked down at her, giving her hair a tug, ‘this is my chance to be one of those knuckleheads who pats himself on the back for babysitting his own kid.’

‘Jim, I told you – the classes I need are mostly during the day.’

‘So? I’ll work from home a few hours a week. We’ll figure it out.’

When she didn’t reply, he persevered, letting go of her hair to grip her shoulder.

‘Pam. I want to do all the stupid corny stuff…like kissing you on top of the Eiffel tower.’

‘I hate heights.’

‘Right…. okay, how about this: I want to kiss you on a boat on the river…’ he trailed off.

‘Seine.’

‘Yeah, there. I happen to know you have no boat issues…in fact, I remember being on a boat with you once,’ he paused before quietly adding, ‘I wanted to kiss you then too.’ 

She laced her fingers with his, splayed protectively across her belly.  

That old familiar ache still surfaced from time to time, like the baby’s fists, poking her from somewhere hidden deep inside. She pressed her cheek against his stomach. He was warm and solid beneath her. 

‘Yeah, well…so you owe me one,’ he continued. ‘And I want to take you to Paris.’

‘God, you’re relentless,’ she smiled.

‘Payback’s a bitch, Pam,’ he lowered his mouth to hers. She met him half way.

  ************  

They began to plan. She spent hours online at the office, researching art museums, gardens, cafes. A boat on the River Seine. Traveling with an infant under a year old at home was probably wishful thinking. But that was okay.

Paris wasn’t going to disappear after the baby was born. Neither was she.

  ****