ABORT!

B. McGILLICUDDY

The problem I have with the suburbs is that there’s no detail overlooked; all was previously captured in the minds of makers. Each object of monotonous development was taken from the head and hands of a person given a lot of imaginary value by people with greedy goals and low expectations. All the pets are descended from animals idealized in the minds of selfish breeders who wanted their own hands to feel what they wanted to feel and for their voices to coo how they imagined they’d coo. The houses are filled with cabinets and vanities and televisions, earrings and wallets and dollars, all tediously labored over by people who value value and for all I know, very little else. And the families are built of people who got married to get children, who got jobs to get married, and who got educated to get jobs. But from this massive ensemble of narcissistic prefabrication came me, I, a child singularly obsessed with authenticity and with little vision for anything else. A man who lives moment to moment in search of an identity that lacks the history of any other mind or muse. I wanted to be myself. Little did I know that after compiling an amalgam of images, searching for the root of true intimacy with the world, would the most authentic occurrence in my life be a mistake.

I sat on her bed, no longer in touch with what I was thinking as she emerged from the washroom with the test in her hand. She had the look I knew she’d have. The one I knew she’d give me. And I couldn’t read it for the life of me.

“What’s the verdict?”
“Oh. A verdict? That’s what this is?”
“So...you’re pregnant.”
“No.”
“Fuck. Holy shit.”
Cue the long fucking silence.
“Nikolaus, I’m...I’m sorry I put you through this, I just...”
“No, it’s fine. It was a legitimate concern. I should have worn a rubber.”
“I should have taken my birth control.” She threw the pregnancy test into the trash and stood at arm’s length from me. She was completely composed, despite the moment's pervasive awkwardness. She looked me in the eyes contemplatively. Her cheeks were still salty, her eyes were still red, and my mind was still relatively unoccupied. “Nik...what does this mean for us? Now that we’re in the clear? Since...there's...no emergency."
“Well, to tell you the truth, Annie," I started resolutely, "at some point while I was waiting, I got this idea in my head that whatever happened I’d still love you. So, um, I guess that’s the case.”
“Wait. You love me?”
“This may be the shittiest possible way for me to realize it, or to tell you for that matter...but I’m sure as shit the answer’s yes.”
She looked at me blankly for about fifteen seconds before I saw the water brimming over her eyelashes for the second time that day. Her face contorted into the scrunched, silent pantomime of an inexpressible emotional overload. I had told her I didn’t want kids. I knew that. She had told me she didn’t want kids. She knew that I knew that. But I’m no hermit and she’s no spinster, and life's a lonely heap of trauma for everybody.

She dropped to her knees and her head slid between her arms, extended. In a muffled sob she said, “I really, really hoped you’d say that! Like nothing else I'd hoped you’d say that!”
I reached out and held her hands for a moment. Then I slid back the lock of hair that had flung out from her ponytail. She slowly raised her head and looked at me with gratitude behind her icy blue eyes.
“Do you want to go get some In-N-Out?” I asked.
“No,” she replied.

B. McGILLICUDDY

P.S.
If the question "do you want to get some In-N-Out?" is posed, you answer yes.