“I’m pregnant, and it’s not yours.”

There are better times to break that kind of news to guy. She could have told me earlier, when we were at home just watching TV. She could’ve let me know this morning over breakfast. Instead she waited until we were at Blockbuster Video, looking at DVDs, deciding what to rent. My mind will forever associate this moment with the cover of Bruce Almighty.

“Wait, hold on,” I said, putting the film back on the shelf. “You’re pregnant.”

“Yes,” she said, looking down. I’m quite certain she was looking at her feet. She was hardly looking at her baby bump. I mean, she didn’t have one yet.

“And it’s not mine,” I said, because when you’re processing big news like this the brain seems to think repeating it to yourself out loud will make some kind of a difference. It doesn’t.

“That’s… yeah, that’s it,” she replied. “I’m sorry.”

“Well,” I said, my mouth autonomous and my brain off on a leisurely stroll. “Probably best not to get Look Who’s Talking, then.”