wants to visit,” he says.
“Tell her to visit,” she says quietly, leaning her head against the window frame and closing her eyes. Sometimes in the past when they’d come home from Dominic and Jacinta’s or Lucia and Abe’s, they’d make love with a lack of inhibition born of too much alcohol and too few issues in their lives. These days their lovemaking is instigated in silence. No words. No teasing. He had once been verbal during sex. Had to articulate. Swore. Cursed. Prayed. All words entwined in every thrust. “Shhh,” she’d laugh, in case they’d wake up Joe, who lived in the attic during those days. But he couldn’t keep it contained, so she’d cover his mouth with her hand and she’d see it all there in his eyes. All of it.
She wants to cover his mouth now. Cover the silence and watch his eyes for a sign. But they’ve become strangers, guarded with each other.
The next day, Lucia and her sister come over and Georgie has to stop them from wanting to talk babies. Her announcement the day before has reopened the floodgates of communication, which is both a relief and a curse, really. Then they get to talking about Bernadette’s decision to try Internet dating, and all three of them end up hunched over Georgie’s laptop when Tom walks in.
“Is that my wifebeater?” he asks.
“I don’t like the derogatory term, thank you. It’s a undershirt.”
“Yeah. My undershirt, Georgie,” he says. “With a spencer underneath it. Looks ridiculous.”
“Shucks, Tom, because I’m really going for the fashionable look these days.”
“Buy yourself maternity stuff, Georgie,” he mutters.
She feels him peer over their shoulder to see what has glued them to the screen of the laptop.
“Internet dating?”
“People are meeting the loves of their lives this way,” Bernadette explains.
“
BabyI’myourman69
?” he asks, reading the name on the screen. “I hope you girls don’t think that sixty-nine represents the year he was born.”
Lucia laughs. “If the munchkin, whose face I used to wash, tries to explain to us what a sixty-niner is, I’m going to report myself to child protection.”
Georgie’s not listening. She’s too busy following what’s on the screen in front of her with her finger. “But look at what this one wrote: ‘If you’re in your late thirties, I suppose your biological clock is ticking and midnight is just around the corner. So hey, baby, baby.’ He’s ready. He wants kids.”
“His own, Georgie,” Bernadette points out. “And we’re looking for me, not you.”
“And you’re not in your late thirties,” Tom points out while he fiddles through the cabinets, looking for food.
“Okay, what about this one?
Itsnowornever.
”
She finds it difficult pronouncing the name.
“It’s now or never,” Tom explains, back over their shoulders.
Georgie reads it carefully. “This guy chose the ‘Don’t want any of my own, but yours are okay’ option for kids.” She feels optimistic.
“What a surprise that there isn’t the option, ‘Don’t want any of my own, but it’s okay for you to be fat with someone else’s child,’” Tom says.
Georgie can’t get over how cynical her nephew’s become.
Tom leans forward and taps the screen with determination. “Look at his taste in music, girls. You can’t go out with someone who listens to ‘anything from the ’70s, ’80s, or ’90s.’ That’s what he’s written. He has to be more discerning than that. And he’s a swinging voter. Sam would never let a swinging voter bring up his child.”
Georgie stares at him, unimpressed. “So now we’re a Sam fan, are we?”
“At least he’s always been specific about his musical tastes.”
She turns to Bernadette and Lucia, not believing what she’s hearing.
“So who would you choose, Bernie? The faithful guy who listens to
’
70s,
’
80s, and
’
90s music and swings in his voting, or the unfaithful guy who’s into the Clash and the Waterboys and
“Tell her to visit,” she says quietly, leaning her head against the window frame and closing her eyes. Sometimes in the past when they’d come home from Dominic and Jacinta’s or Lucia and Abe’s, they’d make love with a lack of inhibition born of too much alcohol and too few issues in their lives. These days their lovemaking is instigated in silence. No words. No teasing. He had once been verbal during sex. Had to articulate. Swore. Cursed. Prayed. All words entwined in every thrust. “Shhh,” she’d laugh, in case they’d wake up Joe, who lived in the attic during those days. But he couldn’t keep it contained, so she’d cover his mouth with her hand and she’d see it all there in his eyes. All of it.
She wants to cover his mouth now. Cover the silence and watch his eyes for a sign. But they’ve become strangers, guarded with each other.
The next day, Lucia and her sister come over and Georgie has to stop them from wanting to talk babies. Her announcement the day before has reopened the floodgates of communication, which is both a relief and a curse, really. Then they get to talking about Bernadette’s decision to try Internet dating, and all three of them end up hunched over Georgie’s laptop when Tom walks in.
“Is that my wifebeater?” he asks.
“I don’t like the derogatory term, thank you. It’s a undershirt.”
“Yeah. My undershirt, Georgie,” he says. “With a spencer underneath it. Looks ridiculous.”
“Shucks, Tom, because I’m really going for the fashionable look these days.”
“Buy yourself maternity stuff, Georgie,” he mutters.
She feels him peer over their shoulder to see what has glued them to the screen of the laptop.
“Internet dating?”
“People are meeting the loves of their lives this way,” Bernadette explains.
“
BabyI’myourman69
?” he asks, reading the name on the screen. “I hope you girls don’t think that sixty-nine represents the year he was born.”
Lucia laughs. “If the munchkin, whose face I used to wash, tries to explain to us what a sixty-niner is, I’m going to report myself to child protection.”
Georgie’s not listening. She’s too busy following what’s on the screen in front of her with her finger. “But look at what this one wrote: ‘If you’re in your late thirties, I suppose your biological clock is ticking and midnight is just around the corner. So hey, baby, baby.’ He’s ready. He wants kids.”
“His own, Georgie,” Bernadette points out. “And we’re looking for me, not you.”
“And you’re not in your late thirties,” Tom points out while he fiddles through the cabinets, looking for food.
“Okay, what about this one?
Itsnowornever.
”
She finds it difficult pronouncing the name.
“It’s now or never,” Tom explains, back over their shoulders.
Georgie reads it carefully. “This guy chose the ‘Don’t want any of my own, but yours are okay’ option for kids.” She feels optimistic.
“What a surprise that there isn’t the option, ‘Don’t want any of my own, but it’s okay for you to be fat with someone else’s child,’” Tom says.
Georgie can’t get over how cynical her nephew’s become.
Tom leans forward and taps the screen with determination. “Look at his taste in music, girls. You can’t go out with someone who listens to ‘anything from the ’70s, ’80s, or ’90s.’ That’s what he’s written. He has to be more discerning than that. And he’s a swinging voter. Sam would never let a swinging voter bring up his child.”
Georgie stares at him, unimpressed. “So now we’re a Sam fan, are we?”
“At least he’s always been specific about his musical tastes.”
She turns to Bernadette and Lucia, not believing what she’s hearing.
“So who would you choose, Bernie? The faithful guy who listens to
’
70s,
’
80s, and
’
90s music and swings in his voting, or the unfaithful guy who’s into the Clash and the Waterboys and
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