She Crossed Her Fingers And Walked Right Through Me
We're floating dreamily in that creaky, weathered hammock from the Army Navy surplus store when she looks at me and says, “I want to have your baby.” I laugh uncomfortably and pretend to have a burning itch on my face so I can relax my smile a little. I linger on it too long and she knows she's making me nervous. She always knows how to make me nervous, even though we barely know each other, barely remember the names of each other’s siblings, best friends and childhood pets. Staring, grinning, she lets me squirm for a full minute more before she continues, “I want to have your fatbaby.”
“You want to have a child with me and make it heavy?” I ask.
“No. I want to get fat with you,” she says. “You and I are going to get fat together and then we’ll both have fatbabies on us, jiggly little people around our waists. Twenty pounds should be enough,” and she pokes me a little too hard in the ribs. “What are you going to name yours?”
“I don’t want a fatbaby,” I say. “I’m not financially stable enough and my school district sucks. Some ten year old got stabbed last week at Ockley Green and I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of world I want my fatbaby living in.”
“I’m naming mine Riley,” she says flatly.
“Ok, then mine will be called Lyle.”
The hammock stops rocking, so I reach out for a chute from the bamboo that’s been slowly devouring the back of my yard for the last year. I reach across her to grab that chute and she bites my arm without hesitation. I’ve already learned not to react when she does this, because it makes her bite harder and longer, even though I like the way she giggles when she eventually lets go. I grab the chute and it breaks off in my hand, sending me abruptly back onto my side of the hammock. She laughs and says, “Do you think fatbabies are covered by healthcare?”
“Not at first,” I say. “They’re not going to cover the birth, so we’re going to have to buy our own milkshakes and tacos.”
“What about when they get sick?” she asks.
“That’s the beauty of the system," I say. "They’ll give us anything we need once we’re sick, so you can forget about preventative care.”
“Well I still want to get Shirley her Diptets,” she pouts in a mock Southern accent. “Just to be safe.”
I reach across her once more and hook another bamboo chute between my fingers, guiding it into my palm. She bites my arm again and I whimper a little, blaming it on the razor edge of the bamboo leaves. She laughs because she knows better and she spares me the deeper bite, this irresistible little Attila. I pull and let go the bamboo and we're suddenly tangled together and swinging again, imagining ourselves the cause of the wind sighing steadily in the fir tree that towers above our hazy, breathless anticipation.
“You want to have a child with me and make it heavy?” I ask.
“No. I want to get fat with you,” she says. “You and I are going to get fat together and then we’ll both have fatbabies on us, jiggly little people around our waists. Twenty pounds should be enough,” and she pokes me a little too hard in the ribs. “What are you going to name yours?”
“I don’t want a fatbaby,” I say. “I’m not financially stable enough and my school district sucks. Some ten year old got stabbed last week at Ockley Green and I don’t know about you, but that’s not the kind of world I want my fatbaby living in.”
“I’m naming mine Riley,” she says flatly.
“Ok, then mine will be called Lyle.”
The hammock stops rocking, so I reach out for a chute from the bamboo that’s been slowly devouring the back of my yard for the last year. I reach across her to grab that chute and she bites my arm without hesitation. I’ve already learned not to react when she does this, because it makes her bite harder and longer, even though I like the way she giggles when she eventually lets go. I grab the chute and it breaks off in my hand, sending me abruptly back onto my side of the hammock. She laughs and says, “Do you think fatbabies are covered by healthcare?”
“Not at first,” I say. “They’re not going to cover the birth, so we’re going to have to buy our own milkshakes and tacos.”
“What about when they get sick?” she asks.
“That’s the beauty of the system," I say. "They’ll give us anything we need once we’re sick, so you can forget about preventative care.”
“Well I still want to get Shirley her Diptets,” she pouts in a mock Southern accent. “Just to be safe.”
I reach across her once more and hook another bamboo chute between my fingers, guiding it into my palm. She bites my arm again and I whimper a little, blaming it on the razor edge of the bamboo leaves. She laughs because she knows better and she spares me the deeper bite, this irresistible little Attila. I pull and let go the bamboo and we're suddenly tangled together and swinging again, imagining ourselves the cause of the wind sighing steadily in the fir tree that towers above our hazy, breathless anticipation.
Labels: Not Fiction
