Planned Parenthood.

I walk by the San Diego planned parenthood everyday on my way to school. The security guard is out front everyday — out the glass doors, down the ramp, on the sidewalk — from 8am to 5pm. At least those are the hours I see him — 8am when I get to school and 5pm when I leave some days.

There are two ways you can enter a Planned Parenthood. If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’re a 22 years old girl in blue jeans holding hands with some guy who must be your boyfriend. He’s wearing basketball shorts.

If you’re unlucky, you’re 27 years old, chubby, and overstuffed into a college sweatshirt. You’re wearing big dark sunglasses when the sun hasn’t even come out yet. You hope the way you’re dressed says to the world that you could just be out jogging — like you just happened to take this new route today that passed by the Planned Parenthood. Your water bottle makes it seem like serendipity took you up the ramp and through the glass doors — like all you needed to do was to catch your breath and use their bathroom and you’ll be right back out.

The truth is that you’re leaning against the railing on the balls of your feet waiting to go inside. You’re staring at the back corner of the building through your shades because if you turned the other way, someone might see your face from the street. The guard doesn’t ask you if you need any help because he’s worked long enough to know that you don’t. He doesn’t even look back.

Since I’ve been out here, I’ve wondered if the couples holding hands walking in and out of the Planned Parenthood held hands when they’re at the park or at a movie. I’ve wondered if some of those couples are couples at all.

How many of the women who are alone are alone by choice? How many thought they’d never be alone if they ever went to a place like this? How many ever thought they’d be at a place like this?

Is there a love story that can be written about a Planned Parenthood? If there was one, it would end like this — just like I saw it:

It would be a foggy morning, about 66 degrees. She would walk in from the parking lot, holding hands with her boyfriend in a Marcus Allen jersey and LA Kings cap. When they walk out an hour later, he’d have his hat off, holding it in his free hand. They’d head down the ramp both looking down toward the pavement. They’d pass the guard who’s there everyday who won’t turn around or acknowledge them.

They’d stand in the parking lot holding one another and whispering. He’d run his hands up and down her sleeveless shoulders to keep her from shivering. I’d walk by and wonder what they’re saying. I’d stop long enough to see them start their car, make a right turn onto 2nd, and never look back.