“My husband is always right, he says you will say you love me – after I say I love you. It proves you don’t love, only love back. So where would I go when I leave? He says he will take me away, see America, the big canyon, the Niagara and hippies and Hollywood. He says we will have a son, or even daughter. Something to make worth it living in this terrible country of stupids, pretending we are more stupid than them to cheat them to live. He says, so what?”

              “So what, what?”

              “So what I’m pregnant.”

              “We were supposed to be very careful,” I don’t say. There is abortion, I don’t say. I say nothing.

              “He says you will be the testicle of our testicle tube baby. Doctor donor sperm, thank you very much. Now you know I’m pregnant, I will know you don’t love me, you won’t take me away. What can I do? Move out of this terrible apartment before is finished the cheating of Americans season? He is right, I must be with him. You see how terrible it is, love?”

              Unintelligible words, not even sentences probably, talking to herself in whatever language she was a girl in. I hold her, she talks into my heart.

              “I can’t say in English. English has only small tiny words. Come. Go. Hate. Love. Sing. Laugh. Ba-Bla-Baby-Blah,” She lifts her head. “I need cigarette.” I reach her a cigarette, she doesn’t light it, she’s trying to quit, I said it made her kisses bitter, I’m lost in this. “You can’t help you are American. It is a so what. Like pregnant, to be American is all you are. No room for anything else. How can I be with you – even if you love me? And you love me? How can I tell? How can I be with you if I must tear it out my own,” she sticks her tongue out. “What is the word?” Many syllables, she beats her face. “What is the baby word for?”

              “Tongue,” I say. "I love you."

              “I know you love me. He is very wrong. Even if you only say English. I can say English – better than I speak now. Because nobody can’t cry and speak English. Such little words, too short to be sad. To be sad needs long sounds, like howls of dogs. Poor English. Poor American. You don’t have your words to speak, born to say words of England. My husband says it is why you can’t learn more languages. Every language, even your own, is a foreigner to you. He says – You hear me? He says, he says. He says I don’t love you, only make love, do sex. I say what you say to me. I say, Love is what you make, love is what you do. He says no, he says – I don’t speak about him.”

              “He says what?”

              “He says in my language, it sounds or better or worse I can’t decided, love is not what you make and do.” She sucks on her unlit cigarette, she says it makes air taste better. “He says love is what you are.”

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