“I don’t think that’s essential.”
This is what I say when Dr. Cohen uses his gentle physician voice to suggest that perhaps we should talk about what transpired between us two nights ago.
“Jane, I’m not a good basket to put your eggs in,” he says. Then he has the gall to laugh. “Whew! Not a good metaphor there. Sorry to bring up eggs.”
“My eggs aren’t at issue.”
“No, no, I realize that. You’re past that point, not that I’m saying you couldn’t still have another child, I don’t mean that. As for me—well, I imagine I am far past that point. Physically, I mean. For me. Not you. At least I hope I am. My children are fully grown—”
“But may be dead, for all you know,” I say grimly. “Perhaps you want to make more offspring. A cautious man might.”
“That is….” Uno pauses. “That is very, very, very direct of you to say so.”
“I told you we didn’t need to talk about this.”
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.