Hannah

Hannah has a dancer's body. You can tell because her hands are always moving when she talks, fidgeting, dancing as they crawl up her boyfriend's sleeve when he ignores her, tapping a rhythm on his cheek.
Sometimes her fingers dance in her sleep, as if she's typing words of infatuation for him, or making beautiful music,

(There is always a beat, in the washing machine cycle, in the cat food tins she throws into the shopping cart, even in the wind around the bus stop as she waits for the number 23, there is always a rhythm that lures her wrists and hips into moving)

her hands are always moving. But now they are silent.

She sits in the leather chair, her sweaty back moulded into the seat, watches the white clock tick in the quiet, white room, as the receptionist coughs and two mothers talk quietly.
They must be mothers, she can guess by their hopeful cheeks, and the way one of them touches her belly delicately, afraid to wake or hurt whatever is growing inside of her.

Hannah is afraid. Her hands are clasped so tightly, they're turning white, but they stay silent, as if she is afraid to wake, afraid to start the voices in her head that she's managed to shut out all the way over here.
She couldn't find a parking spot, had to drive around the block five times, couldn't remember which floor the clinic was on, and so she had to go up and down in the elevator like a yoyo till a kind man took one look at her face and told her:
"It's the third floor.
She wondered if he had guessed what she was going for, she wondered if he had taken one look at the absence of a ring on her finger, made one plus one and came to the right conclusion.
And now she hides her left hand inside the sleeve of her sweater, as she reaches out for a magazine off the table in front of her, and winces as her hot skin peels away from the leather seat.
It reminds her of the skin he peeled off his orange yesterday, as he tried to calm her down, give her something to eat, but her stomach was too fragile.
He had said all the wrong things in his attempt to comfort her, pushed his big glasses up his nose and put out his cigar, because that was the sensitive thing to do. She found herself backed up against the wall, trying to flee his comforting arms that only seemed to weigh her down, watching his pale face and wondering how she'd got herself into this mess.

Hannah is a dancer with a lithe body that can twist and turn into any shape she wants.
He had watched her from the backstage shadows, till one night he couldn't resist reaching out and curling his fingers around her fragile wrist just as she turned away.
She found his quietness alluring, and longed to understand the heavy books he kept tucked under his arm as they walked back to his flat every night.
He won her over with his passionate speeches on Nietzsche and Expressionism, subjects that seemed a little too serious for her taste,

(Hannah had no time for reading, her whole life had been spent running to dance class or rehearsal, dancing till her feet bled, and then taking the bus home for a few hours of desperate sleep. Even on the bus, her mind would retrace the steps and patterns she had learnt, her toes would twitch at the memory of the rhythm, never quiet, never time to think)

but it was the way his eyes danced when he spoke that mesmerised her. She found that he too was a dancer in his own way.

Hannah shouldn't drink, shouldn't eat too much, shouldn't sleep in late, but with him she let herself go, let herself lie naked under the sheets, watching him read, pushing those big glasses up his nose, as her fingers crawled up the sleeve of his t-shirt to distract him. But he always insisted on finishing the page before he would carefully place the bookmark between the pages, close the book shut and lean down to kiss her.

She let herself go, and now here she is, flicking through a Mother& Child magazine, not seeing the words, wishing the clock would skip to four and this would be all over, but then someone calls her name, calls her Mrs because that validates her presence here, the two mothers look up as she walks past, wondering if she's going in for a fertility treatment or perhaps just her monthly check-up, she can't be that far gone, so thin, so petite, she must have been a dancer once, you can tell the way she carries herself, can't you?

That weekend at the beach, she danced circles in the sand, spinning towards him and laughing till she fell dizzy into his arms. At night they drank too much cherry-flavoured vodka, he picked her up in his arms and ran back to his house, and she can honestly say that she'd never been as happy as she was then.

Now she watches the doctor scratch indecipherable words onto the paper, as she asks her questions in a cold, factual tone. How many sexual partners? How regular is your period? Did you use protection? Has he been tested?
And what was a magical moment has suddenly become black ink words scrawled carelessly onto paper, and the man she thought she loved is suddenly a number on her list of partners, and why weren't they careful enough?
She wants to explain that sometimes you are too consumed to think straight, but she can't. Hannah let her body go, and now she is paying the price by having a complete stranger invade her privacy and urge her to question her trust in the man she gave everything to.
Because a dancer's body is her weapon, her most valued possession, and letting it go, surrendering to temptation,

(laziness, butter melting onto hot bread, marks on her back, his small eyes piercing through her clothes, late nights, too many beers, chocolate cake out of the freezer at three AM, coming in late for rehearsal, kisses down her throat, not returning her mother's calls)

was Hannah's biggest betrayal to herself.
Him? Well, he can sleep at night, ask her if she's sure it's his, offer to pay for it, tell his friends over beer how she tricked him into this, he can sleep at night.

She is here, holding her breath as a friendly nurse sticks the needle into her arm, draws blood and chats idly about things Hannah cannot hear, she watches the blood and thinks of the mothers outside.
"What would you like it to be? the nurse asks, as she carefully inserts a drop of blood into a test tube.
"I'm sorry, what did you say? Hannah stammers and shrinks into her seat, curling her feet under the chair, "what would I like what to be?
And in her mind, she thinks of that day when she told him and he washed her face, took her out to their favourite diner, bought her pancakes, but she had some juice instead, a three year old boy with her brown hair and her blue eyes ran past their table laughing.
She smiled, turned to tell him how she loved children, and then she remembered.

He didn't want it. He couldn't handle it. He is too young, he says, they are not ready to be parents, he says, he will stand by her and go with her to the clinic if she wants, he will pay for it, this will not affect their relationship, he says.

She knows he is right, she knows that this could kill everything she's built in her 21 years, dancing since she was three; she cannot give it up for one careless mistake they made one night.
She was going to be a star, remember? She was going to make it someday soon; she could feel it in her bones. And he would read more books, talk about Nietzsche over cigars, write something brilliant and dedicate it to her. He would buy her expensive jewellery that she would wear every night after she dances, he would take her out for a lavish meal at a restaurant where everyone would stop to applaud her, prima ballerina, for another brilliant performance.
She has no time for mistakes; she cannot harm her body and lose everything she's worked herself to the bone for. No.

"I meant, the nurse spoke, "What do you want the test result to be? Would you like it to be negative or positive?
Hannah thought of the two mothers outside and the way they delicately touched their stomachs.
"Negative, she answered, "I'd like it to be negative, please.
The nurse smiled and said, "Well don't worry about it, I have good luck with these tests, they always come out whatever you want them to be.
"How soon can I know?
"Just sit tight here, and we'll find out in three minutes.

Three minutes.

Hannah thinks of him and suddenly there is this inexplicable rage inside, she wants to hit him, she wants to reach out and tear those glasses off his nose, scratch his eyes out, slap at his cheeks, she wants to kick him and punch him and bite him over and over again.

He can sleep at night, he can walk away, but this is his fault, he got her into this mess, this cold seat where she sits waiting to know if her life is already over. He wants her to get rid of it, to kill something inside of her that was born of their love, and he can walk away anytime he wants to.

Two.

She remembers the blue-eyed boy at the diner, how he ran around the table and grabbed casually at her knee for balance. His little hand rested on her skin, he looked up for a split second, saw her face, and she knew she wanted her child to look exactly like that. She would make a great mother.

One.

She was good with children; she danced with them in circles and shared their careless laughter. She would make a great mother, lying on her back as she swung her son into the air, resting his feet on her belly, loving him, her most valuable possession, her reward for all these years of loveless work and sleepless nights, she would slip her shoes, carry him across the park, singing as the wet grass pressed into her feet. And he would laugh.

"It's negative, the nurse says.
"What? Hannah is shaken awake.
"The test result is negative. Congratulations, the woman smiles.
"Are you sure? Hannah asks.
"Very sure, the nurse laughs, "It's my job to know.
"Of course, Hannah touches the sore injection mark on her arm, "thank you.
"Well, isn't that a relief? Now you don't need to worry anymore, the nurse pats her shoulder as she leads her out of the room.
Negative. Congratulations.

The two mothers with the hopeful cheeks look up as Hannah walks past, watch the way she carries herself, she must have been a dancer once, you know, her hands fall limply to her sides, silent. They will never dance again.