Micheal scribbles on a sheet of paper at the dining room table. His thick hair obscures his eyes but I can see his lips pressed into a thin line, concentrating.
"Was that hard?" I ask him.
He shrugs and shakes his head, no.
"Her mom is 14 weeks."
The space between us elongates. I look at him as if down a corridor as it stretches into a tunnel and warps.
I don't say anything for a moment.
"I think we'll try again," I say to him, to myself, to the space between us.
"Like when? You'd better do it soon. Don't ladies stop being able to have babies when they're like 50?"
"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe we'll start trying tomorrow."
He looks at me then, rests his pen, smiles finally.
"That'd be good. Almost everyone I know has a brother or a sister."
"Was that hard?" I ask him.
He shrugs and shakes his head, no.
"Her mom is 14 weeks."
The space between us elongates. I look at him as if down a corridor as it stretches into a tunnel and warps.
I don't say anything for a moment.
"I think we'll try again," I say to him, to myself, to the space between us.
"Like when? You'd better do it soon. Don't ladies stop being able to have babies when they're like 50?"
"Maybe tomorrow. Maybe we'll start trying tomorrow."
He looks at me then, rests his pen, smiles finally.
"That'd be good. Almost everyone I know has a brother or a sister."
