"Call yourself fetus."
Bambi looked down at her oats, a frown on her face when she felt the tension in the atmosphere. "If what I said upset you, I apologize."
Cherry sighed and slid into the chair opposite her friend. "Yeah, me too."
"Cher, the pancakes."
"Forget about the damn pancakes, Bambs. This batch had too much flour anyway."
"Oh," Bambi looked down and continued to shovel spoonful after spoonful of oats into her mouth.
Cherry watched the woman decimate the bowl of oats, guilt creeping into her chest. "Come on, Bambi. Don't do that."
Bambi swallowed forcefully, a lump in her throat as the congealed porridge went down with the pace of a dying snail. She reached for the glass of water in front of Cherry then smiled wide before taking a large gulp. "Dad always said to not talk while eating."
"We both know you think cold oats is disgusting. It's right up there with fish," Cherry said and crossed her arms. "You're upset so you're stuffing your mouth so you don't have to talk to me."
"I'm talking to you now, aren't I? My two hours are almost up, I have an appointment, remember? No time to waste."
"I'm sorry I said that Charlie wasn't your son. It just slipped out before I could stop myself and you didn't react so I thought you didn't care."
"I don't," Bambi grabbed her empty bowl and got up. "Thank you for breakfast. It was delicious."
Cherry got up and followed Bambi into the kitchen. "Bambi, don't be like this. I was joking."
Didn't sound like a joke to me. Bambi turned on the tap and grabbed the nearest bottle of dishwashing liquid.
"Charlie is yours, and Derrick's," she said honestly, her voice quiet, "I shouldn't interfere with how he's raised."
Unshed tears blurred Bambi's vision until she couldn't see what she was scrubbing at anymore but she didn't dare wipe them away with Cherry watching. She didn't dare let them fall for the same reason.
Her mind was just stuck in middle of their conversation, repeating that conversation over and over again. It had been something she had been thinking about lately, having a child. She was already in her thirties; if life had gone according to plan she would have been married with a kid on the way by twenty-five. It was a fact that she had learnt to live with, but today it just seemed too much to bear.
Bambi herself didn't know why she was so emotional. Either Bambae is in a bad mood, or my hormones must be acting up, she decided, turning—as she often did—to her spirit animal and science to explain her irrational behavior.