"I'm late," I told my past paramour Raul.
He sat on the couch of his Manhattan loft
scratching his toes against his calf.
"You late for what?" he asked lazily.
"I'm late," I repeated. "How do you Italians say,
'I've missed my period?'"
He looked up at me. His eyes had not registered the news.
"The period? The mestruazione? You lose it?"
I sighed. "That's right."
He took this in and thought for a moment.
He shrugged. I was exasperated.
"That last time we did it, you used a condom, right?
It didn't fall off, did it?" My voice began to climb.
"Yeah, yeah, I use the condom when we make the love."
My blood pressure was climbing too.
I walked around the couch to face him.
"Well, what are we going to do? What if I'm pregnant?"
"Repeat, per favore."
I searched for other words to describe such a condition.
I held my arms out in front of my belly,
I grabbed the pillow from a nearby chair
and stuffed it under my shirt.
His face lit up. "Ah! incinta! Fantastico!"
"I'm too young! You don't have a job!
We live in a loft! My parents will disown me!"
He frowned. "You speak very fast. Rallentare, per favore."
I knelt beside him imploring his good sense
under that beautiful veneer.
"Please listen to me, Raul. We. Are. In. Trouble."
"I love the children. I make a good father."
I gave up and just went to the corner market to buy
a pregnancy test.
Apparently, I was not pregnant. I just miscounted.
I apologized to Raul, my then paramour.
He smiled and replied, "Que Sera Sera."
Just like the song.
I began making plans on finding an English speaking lover.