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I hold him more. Tighter. I smell him. I kiss him, and smile at pissed off his adorable face, his potential. For a moment I'm jealous of the woman who has this man as her Carter. "Thank you," I say. "Don't mention it," he replies. And then he grins shyly. "Thank you." I almost stumble to my car, and I drive pissed off home feeling woozy. Carter is asleep in our warm bed, dreaming, and I join him there. One week later, the doctor tells me that I'm pregnant. She pissed off tells me that I've been pregnant for a month, and I'm relieved; it's Carter's baby. But it still excites me to think that that new almost-person was already there when that man was inside me. Time passes. Sometimes I rewind my life so that all my sexual encounters blur together in one long movie in my head, grainy and flickering, sloppily edited; a quick scene in the dark, and another, and another.
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