Pomme Terre

Ingmar.

Just because you keep something a secret doesn't mean it never happen, no matter how much you want that to be true.

If I had grown as a woman, as a person, it would be because of Ingmar.

We were together for couple of years. After the initial chemistry worn off, we stayed together because of familiarity, security and bed time activities. We did not connect much with deep conversations, we both had our own lives and circle of friends. He was a good companion and good enough to be presented at social gatherings. Without any storm, I thought we would probably get married and boringly get old together. There was no reason to break up, the sex was great, until a storm came.

We were both drunk, and we slept with each other. Without protection. It was a big deal, because I always counted my days carefully, and if the days were dangerous, the rubber must be there.

The next morning, with the head still heavy from hangover, barely remembering the details of the night before, I called Ingmar.

"Mar... we fucked without protection," that was how we communicated.

"You were in heat," he sneered. "Why? Are you worried?"

"Damn right, asshole. I am fertile. You know I am particular about this. Why can't you be a gentleman and put the damn rubber on?"