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DECEMBER 17, 1995 / DELROV HOUSEHOLD

"Do you know what just occurred to me?" Seven months pregnant and still as talkative as ever, Ekaterina Delrov was comfortably immersed in cushions, duvets and a tub of ice-cream.

"I get priority just because I'm pregnant. Pregnant women haven't done anything for society, other than put more pressure on the population. A pregnant woman could be mean and bitter and abusive, but would still be treated better than most," she spoke around a spoonful of Neapolitan ice-cream.

Her husband, Vasily Delrov, put down the bag of groceries, and sat down on the couch next to her, slinging her feet over his lap. A fine dusting of snow lay on the shoulders of his coat, like tiny lumps of wet sugar.

"I think people want to look after the more vulnerable in our communities. It's only natural."

"Who says I'm more vulnerable? No-one. They just assume. It's very much the same way people automatically love supermodels, even though being beautiful is innate for them. Stupid, isn't it?"

"I can't remember if you were this grouchy before you got pregnant or not." He scratched his head, mockingly confused, "Do you?"

Ekaterina downed another gulp of ice-cream, despite the biting chill of Russian winter, "I probably was. People of abnormal intelligence must be of abnormal personality."

"That could also mean that you are abnormally stupid," Vasily countered.

Both of them would never even consider Ekaterina as stupid. She didn't dignify him with speaking, only allowing her eyes to slide over to the certificates hung on the wall over their fireplace mantle. Among them, Vasily could see two doctorates and a certificate from Mensa.

Her face lit up with a smirk, and she gulped down a predominantly strawberry scoop, "You are very funny, husband. Do you hear how much I am laughing? Ha, ha, ha."

Her robotic laughs continued for three seconds, until Ekaterina saw Vasily's scowl, and started genuinely laughing.

"Oh," she shifted so her protruding stomach was not folded into her hips, "It never gets old."

Vasily let a smile slip from his glare, and before he could grab onto his composure, his affronted mask cracked and he joined in Ekaterina's infectious laughing. She had laughed more than he had ever heard her laugh during her pregnancy, and he really wanted to see more of the jubilant woman with summer and birdsong in her voice.

Ekaterina felt the warmth from his large palm seep into her stomach. Vasily asked, "Do you think he'll be more like me, or you?"

"I think he'll be like you, Mr. Delrov. Too carefree about everything. But," a vanilla mouthful, "I hope he'll be like me. He'll do well either way, so I'm not worried."

Vasily rose from the couch, and the shifting of the cushions made Ekaterina want to pee. Pregnancy, surprisingly, made her want to pee quite a lot these days.

"I'm making solyanka for dinner," he said, "So you'd better be nice to me."

Ekaterina kept quiet — her fiercer, more independent self would not have done so if she were not pregnant (her GP suggested not arguing as much despite it being a favourite pastime of hers because it threw her stress levels to the stars) — only because she had been having cravings for something warm and sour, and solyanka was her favourite.

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