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Show Motherlunge a novel 105 watched the pictures appear on the paper, flimsy and half imaginary-seeming. We listened to the Clash through speakers trashed by sequential semesters of art student use, and we talked. "Did I tell you about Pavia's baby?" I asked one time. Eli was a dark shape at the sink, edges lit from the blue overhead bulb. "At the ultrasound?" "Yeah. Boy, right?" "Right." I made the heartbeat noise under my breath, double-time to London Calling. I thought of the little fetus-gelatinous, skeletal-occupying Pavia's middle, moshing in his watery sac. "What if we had one?" I agitated with the tongs some more. "Ha." Eli turned to pin a photo up on the line to dry, then faced me again through the murk. "But you're on the pill, you said. " "I know," I opened and closed the tongs to ventriloquize the syllables. "Re-lax, E-li. I-am-not-preg-nant-nor-will-I-be-so." He turned away, wiping his hands on his corduroys. "I am relaxed, Thea. You brought it up, remember?" "Peas," I said, "Suuntsaa." And Eli ha-ha'ed ruefully and closed the door of the developing booth behind him as he stepped inside. The water ran continuously from the hoses, rinsing the prints. I thought of Dorothy, washing and washing in a communal sink in the hospital. "Thea, do these suck?" His voice was muffled from inside the booth. "I'm looking at all these negs and the prints and I'm thinking...." |