We were cuddling, basking in the afterglow, when I proudly remark that I've been utmostly responsible with my birth control pills - quite a feat for a careless muddle-head like me.
He, being the cynic, says, "Wouldn't it be ironic if you got pregnant anyways?"
I snort and slap his thigh lightly. Though we talked about the pregnancy-matter like "adults" before, it still makes me squeamish. Yet somehow, I am stricken with a thought.
"We'd have beautiful kids."
"Uh-huh," he emphatically agrees. "I hope they look like you."
"Well, they'd have your nose. Your lips." His lips are damnably sexy, soft and full.
"And man, they'd be uber intelligent."
"With high sex drives," he adds.
I laugh, "Ridiculously high."
We talk on, analyzing traits and giggling with guilty pleasure. Guilty because Susie, our intelligent, worldly-minded twenty-year-old maven, isn't supposed to take an almost euphoric joy in motherhood. Pleasurable because I am, afterall, just a biological creature and I want to hold a chubby, cooing face. I want to feel love.
This whole relationship with K. has brought discomforting issues to the foreground. It's been a slue of new experiences, conflicting emotions, and a microscope for my own personality.
We have moments of beauteous tranquility, and yet, the next moment, I've jumped out of his car. I'm bounding across four frenetic lanes of the Lake Shore, and down the shoreline, with the cityscape blurring into epileptic ribbons behind me. K is in hot, and confounded, pursuit.
When it comes down to it, I'm not sure how I feel. For once, I'm at a loss as to how to analyze and make sense of things. Biological urges bleed into rationality into my senseless quirks into a delightful blur.
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