By Leslie Lindsay

Here’s another installment from my novel-in-progress.  We’re still in the same character’s head from last Friday:  Steve.  He’s just gotten home from work and his wife is “all fertile.” 

[Remember, this is an orginal work of fiction.]

         I stripped down to my boxers, tossed my khaki pants on the floor and pulled that stupid navy blue polo—Carmargo logo and all—over my head.  Since the economy was sorta crappy, the big cheese, Mr. Carmargo himself thought it was good for company morale to wear matching polos. But he always shows up in a suit.  Bastard. 

          I changed into my threadbare South Park tee and a pair of cargo shorts.  Beth hated my T-shirt.  She figured that poking her fingers in the pit holes and calling them ‘scent portals’ would get me to stop wearing it.  It didn’t.

           Finally, Beth emerged from the bathroom all smiles.  I slipped off my sweaty socks and dangled them playfully in her face, “Here, wanna sniff?!” 

           She cringed, turned her nose up and looked toward the arched window over our bed, “Ew, no!  Put those in the hamper, Steve.  Besides, what kind of way is that to greet your wife?” She arched her eyebrows a bit. “Your very fertile wife?” 

           “What?”  I squeaked.  A wave of heat rolled up my neck making my hairline all sweaty. 

           “Yep.  Fertile.  I just took one of those ovulation predictor things and, according to the results, today is prime baby-making time. She waves the wand thing in front of my face.  I half-expect it to smell like pee.

            I take a quick peek.  It doesn’t say anything like “make a baby right now,” but it does have a green color to it.  I guess it was giving us the green light to play hide-the-salami without a goalie.  

            I didn’t want to.

            She pulls at the button on my shorts says, “Just take these off, will ya?”

           I just put them on. 

           “Later, ‘kay?” 

           But she rubs my chest, feeling my pecs through that extra thin, worn tee-shirt.  She was being all playful and cute, a change from the button-up attitude she usually sported.  I pushed her aside.  I really did.  Not hard, but just enough to let her know I wasn’t interested.  I reached for my baseball cap on the dresser and kissed her forehead. 

           Her brown eyes teared up and I almost thought she’d really cry this time. I tried to explain that I just got home from work and I wasn’t feeling all that frisky.  I tried to tell her that later tonight, after I’ve had a chance to ride my bike and decompress with a few video games and maybe a beer, I’d be ready. 

           As usual, she didn’t listen.

          “Stevie, I’ve been missing you all day,” she whined.  “I thought you’d be happy to hear that I was fertile.” 

          “Hon, I think it’s cool that you’re …um, fertile.”  I shrugged, “But now just isn’t the right moment, ya know?  But it’s cool. Good.  Good for you.” 

             “Good for me?  It’s supposed to be good for us.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.  Her face looked like a wadded-up Kleenex. 

THE END (for now)

As always, I appreciate your thoughts, comments, suggestions for improvements, and “likes.”  Best wishes for a happy weekend!