Orville, having assembled his own dinner from leftovers, and watched some forgettable television, began to be concerned about Edwina’s absence, even though she told him she’d be late. His mood tonight had been one of regret, coupled with the urge to confess. He’d have to tell her sooner or later, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t be able to participate in a trying-to-get pregnant drama, should she wish to begin such a thing; that would be beyond his ability to pretend. She’d be angry, though, and he was a scaredy-cat. Did he have all his reasons in a row? Could he convince her that it had been for her own good? Maybe?
The process was reversible, he’d been assured, though that would be a last resort. Only if Edwina threatened divorce, or something like it, would he break what he now thought of as his pact with Mother Earth to not (personally) produce any more humans. A small effort by one man, but somehow important. Well, if it were so important, Edwina would say, then why didn’t we talk about it? Why hadn’t he told her about his (relatively new) conviction?
As the minutes ticked by, Orville, a born non-decider, began to make a decision. He would tell Edwina the truth as soon as she got home. He would apologize for not discussing the “procedure” with her. He would then convince her that he had done the right thing; that his only mistake had been not letting her know. He was ready— and then Edwina walked in the front door.
She seemed in a good mood. She was humming. She went straight to the kitchen; he heard her pour a glass of wine. He heard the microwave begin its monotonous drone. He roused himself from his hunched-over position on the couch, slowly stood, looked around the small but cozy room with its warmly-glowing lamps, its Audubon reproduction prints, its shelves of beautiful books about nature and animals, the matching chair and couch of pale green, the hand-woven wool rug with its bright stripes, and of course, the big screen TV— and sat back down again.
— Macoff
The process was reversible, he’d been assured, though that would be a last resort. Only if Edwina threatened divorce, or something like it, would he break what he now thought of as his pact with Mother Earth to not (personally) produce any more humans. A small effort by one man, but somehow important. Well, if it were so important, Edwina would say, then why didn’t we talk about it? Why hadn’t he told her about his (relatively new) conviction?
As the minutes ticked by, Orville, a born non-decider, began to make a decision. He would tell Edwina the truth as soon as she got home. He would apologize for not discussing the “procedure” with her. He would then convince her that he had done the right thing; that his only mistake had been not letting her know. He was ready— and then Edwina walked in the front door.
She seemed in a good mood. She was humming. She went straight to the kitchen; he heard her pour a glass of wine. He heard the microwave begin its monotonous drone. He roused himself from his hunched-over position on the couch, slowly stood, looked around the small but cozy room with its warmly-glowing lamps, its Audubon reproduction prints, its shelves of beautiful books about nature and animals, the matching chair and couch of pale green, the hand-woven wool rug with its bright stripes, and of course, the big screen TV— and sat back down again.
— Macoff
I dunno but I think maybe Orville is going to have to change his ways a bit. Hmmm, maybe seek therapy for help in doing so? ;) I like the snap shot you're supplied here.
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