My shadowy correspondent from the East Village has written a long and thoughtful email to help me grasp why Nina would be so distressed: She has a new job unsuited for instant motherhood and she thinks she hates the presumptive father. Made me feel rather sorry for Nina myself.
We’ve never even talked about children or abortion or pregnancy. Nina’s eyes double in size when she details her dreams of promotion, travel, exploits.
LOVE LIKE BARBICIDEWhat should a man say? What say should a man have? Doesn’t she have to talk to me?
What should I do? I’m feeling grumpy and dumpy, too. Maybe I should be having the kid.
NOTE: I replied to two emails from the correspondent in question and I even filled out the form to get cleared for acceptance/delivery (as ‘Maskman’), but her account still bars my email. She might wish to look into this.
Finally, I did snoop to see if Nina has searched for information about any revealing medical symptoms. I wanted to see if she shares my concern or has a better theory.
She evidently erases data when she signs off. I feel like a rat for looking: It’s her computer and she uses it to plug into the bank’s internal network. There’s nothing quite like failing at doing something you knew was wrong anyway.
I rub my stubble and wonder if I should have sniffed her keyboard when I had the opportunity. There’s a truism that keyboards are filthier than toilet seats. Not this one: Nina regularly scrubs it with the disinfectant I sell. Is she making fun of me?
I wonder, wonder who wrote the book of love in the time of bird flu.