Berkeley Fiction Review other, starting. It was now again. "Anne's pregnant," I said, and nothing more in the stillness. In the motion. For half an hour. I'd been asleep for a few minutes, too, as if having said it, all was right. It's like that sometimes and Rachel was solemn and soft. Waiting and npt waiting. "I have this dream." We moved together, our bellies touching once. "I can't shake it. Anne arid a woman—not Terry." Her window shade was traced with black, like cracked porcelain glaze. "They're pregnant. Caressing each other. Both of them heavy..." "Umm," she said and I thought yes—yes, it's like that. I described it to her and she described it back to me. The two of them round with weight, holding each other like smooth globes to be turned, listened to. The tautness of their bellies and their beautiful fingers tracing it. Then I was crying and Rachel was on top of me and her hands deep in my hair, tight.
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