This Is Hardcore

Chapter 6

June 23, 2012. Hannah and I were in line for Radio 1's Hackney Weekend. It was our day-off, and my employee and close friend Greg is now handling the store. We were so excited because we were going dance, sing, shout, clap, and get crazy for a little while in the six stages.

     It has been 3 weeks since Danny and I had made love together. I still remember and cherish every moment of it. His sweet lips. His musky smell. His cold eyes. His disheveled hair. His sexy stubble. His firm chest. His abs (self-explanatory). And finally, his manhood.

     Once I was under his spell, there was no turning back. Sweat. Blood. Tears. Saliva. And then, it.

     It was perfect. It was not the stereotypical sex that you see in porn and magazines. This is love. (See X-art.)

While we were waiting for Example to perform on stage, I have this weird and eerie feeling building up in my tummy. (Trivia: The stomach is located between the pecs and the belly button, not the belly itself. Do you know what is in the belly? Don't ask me, I don't study anatomy.)

     "Hannah?"

     "Yes?"

     "I should go," I said, gesturing.

     "What? I thought you loved Example," Hannah replied, seemingly confused.

     "No!" I'm feeling uncomforable. "I should go to the..."

     "Oh, the bathroom! Okay, I'll join you. Example starts in 20 minutes."

Now, if you are experienced in music festivals in the UK (which I think you aren't, noob), then part of the experience is the LOOOONG queues of people wanting to go to the loo. Which is excusable, considering the large amount of alcohol that gets drunk in these events. So I waited for 15 long minutes. The people were excruciatingly rude. People try to cut in line, but because of me, they become unsuccessful.

     Finally, it was my time to do my business. "Are you okay?" Hannah asked.

     "Yeah, sorta," I retorted.

     I tried to open the doorknob, but then I realized there is none. So I just pulled it open and went in. But as soon as I stepped inside the toilet, I threw up. To everyone's ghast. It was on the floor, in the toilet, all over my shirt.

     "God Lucy, are you knocked up?"

     I wasn't going to lie; there is no use trying. Here I am; Lucy Stormers, 26, pregnant, and just threwn up.

"So?"

     Danny was as confused as I am. He walked randomly around his flat, while I was sitting in his bed. "What are we going to do?"

     "Abort it," he stated.

     "NO!"

     "Why?"

     "Just cause."

     It was more than that. Even though law allows abortion by a registered medical practitioner (doctor, elaborated) in England and Wales, and Scotland, I still don't think it was a good idea to just throw this baby away. My mother is Irish, and you know what the Irish have that us Brits don't; the Catholic Church.

     "Come here," I hithered Danny.

     "What?"

     "Come close to me."

     He complied, and did sit close to me. "This is the fruit of our love," I cheesily stated. "If you really love me..."

     "Of course I love you, hun. It's just that--I can't handle having a baby."

     "We are going to try, okay?"

     It was now or never at this point. It was either he finally had the guts to be a father or he was going to chicken out of the deal, and eventually, out of our relationship.

    I looked into his eyes again. Suddenly, I decoded its meaning. A part of it was telling me that he is confused; to abort or to be a father? The lady or the tiger? Another was telling me that he loved me; unconditionally, without restraint, and without terms and guidelines. This heartened me.

    Finally, he said, "I am going to try."