DISCLAIMER: Carnivale and its canon characters are the property of HBO and the show's producers; no copyright infringement is intended.

Note: Like any speculative Carnivale fiction written now, this story may be rendered AU by canon established in a future season.
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He didn't even realize I was a virgin. Fancy that!

He wasn't expecting a virgin, of course. Not after what I'd led him to believe about me.

But the way I'd always imagined my first time, the man would realize it, would recognize what a wondrous thing I was offering him.

Maybe I've seen too many romantic movies.

As I imagined it, he'd be a gentleman and want to stop. I'd cling to him and beg him to continue. Then he'd insist on being very, very sure I understood what I was doing and really wanted to give him the priceless gift of my maidenhood.

I'd explain that I was sure, because he was the only one I could ever love, I'd worshipped him from first sight, and all I wanted was to make him happy and spend the rest of my life with him.

He'd say he felt the same way about me. I'd weep for joy, and he'd be weeping too.

Then, at last, he'd make love to me--moving slowly at first, gently, trying not to hurt me. He probably would hurt me a little, but I wouldn't let on, and as our lovemaking continued, I'd forget any pain and know only bliss in his embrace. We'd spend the night together. Come morning we'd lie in bed, locked in each other's arms, and talk about marriage and children.

And now look what I've done! Given my virginity to someone who didn't recognize or appreciate it. Someone I can't possibly marry. Someone who, if he's thinking of me at all, is probably fretting over the sin he committed.

I have this crazy thought of me having to ask a girl like--oh, Libby Dreifuss--how you know if you're pregnant. Libby would be in stitches.
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But the really funny thing is...I wouldn't change a bit of it. Because he is the love of my life, I did fall in love at first sight, and even if I never feel his lips on mine again, I'll be his till my dying day.

He can hardly be faulted for not catching on that I was a virgin, when he was one himself.

Should I tell him the truth? That far from sleeping around--with his father or anyone else--I've been saving myself for the great love I knew at once was him? That my son is a foundling I raised from infancy? That Lodz knew all that, and told lies about me because he was sure I'd be too embarrassed to deny them?

No, I can't tell him. He's under too much pressure as it is, without thinking he has some obligation toward a woman my age. All I can do is love him, be here for him if he needs me...and maybe, foolishly, hope.

Hope for a lot of things...of which the least unlikely is that I'll need to ask that question of Libby Dreifuss.
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(The End)