The night everything changed was a Monday in November.
Three months after the gala. Four weeks after the second ultrasound. The pregnancy was showing now — unmistakably, in the specific way that bodies made facts undeniable. I had moved through the strange territory of my body becoming something visible, something that communicated to strangers in grocery stores and coffee shops and the clinic.
I had gotten used to it.
I had gotten used to a lot of things.
The Coconut Grove house. Marta’s coffee. The dock at sunset. The three-times-a-week visits that had quietly become every day without either of us announcing it. The specific easy quality of someone who knew where to sit in a kitchen and what you took in your coffee and which topics made you go quiet.
I had gotten used to Dante.
Tha
