Read Online Light Lifting by Alexander Macleod - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alexander Macleod
Ads: Link
steps in close to me. Tight. Smell the stale Tim Hortonâs on his breath. He whispers it in my ear.
Listen you little faggot, I got my own kid back there. Sheâs freezing and now your guys are cutting in.
I know what it looks like, but itâs not how it is.
It is how it is. No cutting.
The doors open and a nurse comes out, spots us instantly and understands. Must happen every morning. Ten times a day.
The guy tells her Iâm trying to move my kids to the front.
I have been here since four.
She touches my arm and touches his arm at the same time. The voice is flat. No eye contact. Bureaucracy flows through her fluorescent bib. A performance of order no one can argue with.
There will be plenty for everyone, she says.
Lines that must come from a handbook.
Everyone will please return to their original spots. There will be plenty of vaccine. The staff of this clinic understand this is a stressful period for all families. We thank you in advance for your patience.
Henry IVâs coronation in 1399. Most famous moment in the history of lice. The Archbishop, holding the crown in his hands, ready to set it on Henryâs head. The granting of supreme power. Sees them, hundreds of lice, moving in the Kingâs hair. Scared now to even touch him. Drops the crown and recoils. It nearly hits the floor. He backs away. Disgusted. Blessings extended from a distance. Lice in the palace, Henry spreads it through the entire court. Centuries of evasive tactics, but they cannot get away. Powdered wigs. Shaved heads underneath. Revolutions in hygiene. Zinsser tracks them all.
Dates and times printed out on small white cards. Where we need to be and when. Appointments and consultations. The doctors count our cells. Blood tests and urine tests. Semen samples. Vaginal discharge. What they tell us. There will never be kids. Impossible under these conditions. Levels bad on both sides. Figures that do not add up. Incompatible. A test we fail every month. Wait for it not to come, but the period arrives on time. Both know the expected day. She comes out of the bathroom. Closes the door. Shakes her head.
Twenty-six months of trying. More than two years. Like a wet fog, soaking through everything else. Folic acid supplements. Prenatal vitamins. No caffeine. The best odds diet. Cut down on the booze. Save yourself for when you are needed. A hidden calendar charts internal temperatures. Days with red Xâs and green Xâs. Ovulating. This is the window. Good cervical mucus is stretchy. Look at it, she says. A translucent elastic she pulls out of her body.
We go all the different ways. On the top and on the bottom. Pillow under the small of her back. Hands and knees. Standing up. Sitting down. Calculate angle and thrust. Deep and deep and deep. Hydraulics of life. Pressure and lubrication. Sweat dripping off the tip of my nose. Tears in her eyes. Salt water.
Desired outcomes. What we want is when we want it. No way to connect where we are and where we were. This is the opposite of everything we have ever done before. Sugar pills, place savers, in the circle dispenser. Click, click, click. Be sure to pull out. Blow your load. Days sprawling. Three years to finish the thesis. No rush. Smeared towels. Breakfast at three in the afternoon. Our first real bed, the mattress raised up off the ground. First place. Tall ceilings. Candles melting in the necks of wine bottles. Sticky cast off T-shirts. Summer humidity. Sun dresses and tank tops. Thin tan lines rolling over her shoulder. Freckles. Crusty Kleenex. A rubber swirling down the bowl. Ribbed for her pleasure. Random Wednesday afternoon. Lazy like you do not know.
How much do you think? she asks me once.
Blazing sunlight. Grey hand-job puddle in her palm. Devious, joking smile.
She holds it out. Slime on her fingers.
How much do you think? In one lifetime? How much can one guy produce? A pint of it? A gallon of splooge? No way. Think about that: a gallon, a milk jug in
Listen you little faggot, I got my own kid back there. Sheâs freezing and now your guys are cutting in.
I know what it looks like, but itâs not how it is.
It is how it is. No cutting.
The doors open and a nurse comes out, spots us instantly and understands. Must happen every morning. Ten times a day.
The guy tells her Iâm trying to move my kids to the front.
I have been here since four.
She touches my arm and touches his arm at the same time. The voice is flat. No eye contact. Bureaucracy flows through her fluorescent bib. A performance of order no one can argue with.
There will be plenty for everyone, she says.
Lines that must come from a handbook.
Everyone will please return to their original spots. There will be plenty of vaccine. The staff of this clinic understand this is a stressful period for all families. We thank you in advance for your patience.
Henry IVâs coronation in 1399. Most famous moment in the history of lice. The Archbishop, holding the crown in his hands, ready to set it on Henryâs head. The granting of supreme power. Sees them, hundreds of lice, moving in the Kingâs hair. Scared now to even touch him. Drops the crown and recoils. It nearly hits the floor. He backs away. Disgusted. Blessings extended from a distance. Lice in the palace, Henry spreads it through the entire court. Centuries of evasive tactics, but they cannot get away. Powdered wigs. Shaved heads underneath. Revolutions in hygiene. Zinsser tracks them all.
Dates and times printed out on small white cards. Where we need to be and when. Appointments and consultations. The doctors count our cells. Blood tests and urine tests. Semen samples. Vaginal discharge. What they tell us. There will never be kids. Impossible under these conditions. Levels bad on both sides. Figures that do not add up. Incompatible. A test we fail every month. Wait for it not to come, but the period arrives on time. Both know the expected day. She comes out of the bathroom. Closes the door. Shakes her head.
Twenty-six months of trying. More than two years. Like a wet fog, soaking through everything else. Folic acid supplements. Prenatal vitamins. No caffeine. The best odds diet. Cut down on the booze. Save yourself for when you are needed. A hidden calendar charts internal temperatures. Days with red Xâs and green Xâs. Ovulating. This is the window. Good cervical mucus is stretchy. Look at it, she says. A translucent elastic she pulls out of her body.
We go all the different ways. On the top and on the bottom. Pillow under the small of her back. Hands and knees. Standing up. Sitting down. Calculate angle and thrust. Deep and deep and deep. Hydraulics of life. Pressure and lubrication. Sweat dripping off the tip of my nose. Tears in her eyes. Salt water.
Desired outcomes. What we want is when we want it. No way to connect where we are and where we were. This is the opposite of everything we have ever done before. Sugar pills, place savers, in the circle dispenser. Click, click, click. Be sure to pull out. Blow your load. Days sprawling. Three years to finish the thesis. No rush. Smeared towels. Breakfast at three in the afternoon. Our first real bed, the mattress raised up off the ground. First place. Tall ceilings. Candles melting in the necks of wine bottles. Sticky cast off T-shirts. Summer humidity. Sun dresses and tank tops. Thin tan lines rolling over her shoulder. Freckles. Crusty Kleenex. A rubber swirling down the bowl. Ribbed for her pleasure. Random Wednesday afternoon. Lazy like you do not know.
How much do you think? she asks me once.
Blazing sunlight. Grey hand-job puddle in her palm. Devious, joking smile.
She holds it out. Slime on her fingers.
How much do you think? In one lifetime? How much can one guy produce? A pint of it? A gallon of splooge? No way. Think about that: a gallon, a milk jug in
Similar Books
