We’ll Have to See How it Goes

We’ll Have to See How it Goes

I’ve let it go: the no. He’s pregnant. Nearly said in the family way but I’m not feeling it; not yet. He can be a right frosty arse. Took it for shyness at first, more fool me.

And you’ll never get a nightie-night out of him, not unless you dream it. We’re not lying here like spoons. Back to back we are. He wants to be careful. I’ll be having an Edwardian duel in my sleep. Might turn to shoot him with a bullet out of two fingers.

I married for love. Love for my dear old dad, I think. Wanted to see me settled, didn’t he. Bless him. Not got long. Stage 4. Heartsad I am. He’s cockahoop I’m married with a baby on the way. See the day, Dad, see the day. And there was that lot at work had me down as a secret lesbo; never said anything though, not until they were bladdered at the evening reception. Don’t talk to me about secrets, I said to them, because Mia can be a bit of a lass on the QT, Scarlett, don’t get me started, and Ella, she was having a thing with that short blonde in HR until he went on long-term sick with men’s troubles.

I’m no Rockefeller but it didn’t stop me rolling out the pre-nup. I know lasses who’ve ended up on the hard card for life because of love; lost thousands, half their pensions, the lot. Not this cat. No chance. I might not even get rid. We’ll have to see how it goes. Umpteen thou a divorce costs. That’s just for the divorce. And there’s no getting round that.

Can’t get over. Ten minutes on the tablet, I think. He’ll not dare moan. Serves him right. It’s his fault I’ve a cave like a fire bucket. I’m going to have to go on the Daily Hate and read about all the horrors. That’ll be a dampener. I used to enjoy a good old-fashioned book before I got with him. Ask my dad. He used to pass mum’s thrillers on. Like new they were, uses a bookmark. Oh, look at this: a doctor’s been feeling up a few of her patients. Some psychologist’s saying people can tell, you know, sense, what sort of a touch a touch is; like if it’s a sexual one or not. That’s a load of crap that is. A hand’s a hand. If I touch the mister now, just put my hand on his back like this; he doesn’t know what that touch means. What? Is my hand going to whisper sexy hand, sexy hand? I tell you, the shit that comes out of some people.

He’s not even far gone. Still retching first thing. If he’s like this now, what am I in for when he’s about to drop? Well, I’m happy to let it go tonight but if he thinks he’s cold-shouldering me whenever he feels like it he can think again. You don’t keep a dog and bark yourself. That’s one of mum’s, that is. She’ll have to stop saying it soon.

Oh, it moves. Must be off to the loo. You do know I’m up at seven? It’s alright for him. Does two till tens down the nursing home. Hardly worth it for what it brings in. Brings in a smell of oldness, that’s what.

His father’s cuckoo. It’s anyone’s guess what the poor mother had to put up with before she saw sense and did off down south, Putney I think, to live it large with a strapping piece younger than her own son. Knocked him up apparently. Go on, lass! Good for her! The new tech fazes a lot of them. Yeah, so anyway, mister’s more manageable than some lad with backup. Couldn’t be doing with a lad with backup. Makes them cocky; gob off. They’re not scared to bring it when they’ve somewhere to go.

Bloody hell, I wish I hadn’t scrolled down. The things that go on. I mean, how can you look at this stuff without having your mind turned? I’ll never understand this world. I’ll be a protective parent, me. Wrap it up in cotton wool. It’ll still be reading fairy tales when it’s sixteen, mine will. If it’s a boy, that is. Guard your heart, little prince, I’ll tell it. Guard your heart.

I’d like two. I’m one of two myself. We’ll have to see how it goes. See how he does with this one first. He could be hopeless, not cope, let the housework slide. Might go the way of his father.

I don’t think a quickie’s too much to ask. This is not on, this. Why should I let it go? What’s his prob? It’s not like it’ll take long. Not the way I am here. Where the hell is he? Must’ve gone for a drink and a ginger snap. Energy to scuttle about the house of a night for midnight feasts but when it comes to keeping the wife happy it’s sorry, comatose, no go. Well, I’m getting it when he gets back. This is a bloody joke, this is. I’d never force a man, not even the husband, but I’m so not above petty. No sex, no sleep, mister. I’m starting as I mean to go on and I mean to go on having sex whenever I feel like it. I’m not one of those apes I saw on Classic Attenborough. If push comes to shove I could make do with twice a week. If he can’t lie back for that then there’s something wrong with him.

He might very well have something wrong with him. You’ve only got to look at the father. They reckon they always turn out like them in the end.

Where the hell is he? Potter, potter. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was folding the bloody laundry, he’s a nightmare like that.

Shauna’s work has been published online with several journals including Southword, MIR, The Cossack Review and Breakwater Review.

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