Tree Houses
Lydia Copeland

At the doctor there was a man in the lobby waiting for his wife. I took the seat next to him. He had the smile of an actor. He was reading an article on tree houses in an old Smithsonian Magazine.
"Let's move away to this one," he said to me. He pointed to a thatched roof house in Tahiti, suspended in a clutch of palm tress. There was a frozen ocean and a standstill sunset. And through the window of the tree house I could see a kitchen with a cutting board placed flat on a counter top and a paring knife that gleamed in the sun.
"I'm all yours," I said.
The baby kicked inside of me for the first time. I didn't tell my husband. I want to keep some things just for me.

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