A couple of months back, I decided to try exercising outdoors before work to see if it would improve my productivity through the day since many self-help books said it would.
Shortly after I started, I began saying hello to a man in his 60s who had the job of keeping the plants in the neighbourhood watered and trimmed because we saw each other every single day. After a few weeks of hellos, the man initiated conversation and after that would make small talk with me about impersonal matters once in a while. This went on harmlessly for a few months, until one day, out of nowhere, he suddenly said (not in English)—
“Girl, let me tell you this, as a friend, because I care about you. You are married aren’t you?”
I said I was even though legally, I’m not. Same-sex marriage isn’t a thing where I live and I wasn’t interested in telling him—an acquaintance—about the female partner I was committed to and living with in the block just metres away from his place of work.
He then said…
“Just go see a fertility doctor.”
My eyes got big.
Author. Closet Lesbian. Escapist.
