Page 41 of Wide-Eyed
“You’re making it sound like you stole them.”
“No.” He sighed. “I found them on the side of the road. Next to?—”
He stopped and cleared his throat. Hesitantly, I reached for his arm, but he shook his head, and I let it fall.
“Next to their mother. She’d been hit by a car.”
My eyes welled as I imagined a boy who had lost his mother under similar circumstances, picking up orphaned ducklings and taking them home.
“Oh, Mike.”
“They fit in my hands. All three of them. I searched in case there were any others, but I couldn’t find any. We didn’t have any pets then. There wasn’t time—Dad was working all hours and trying to raise us two hellions. But he couldn’t say no to a fistful of orphaned ducklings.”
“No.” I sniffed. “That would be impossible.”
“I called them Huey, Dewey, and Louie.”
At my watery laugh, he looked indignant.
“Don’t yank me, I was seven?—”
“At least it’s more original than Mini Mike.”
“Watch yourself.” He pointed a fry at me, with mock sternness. “Mini Mike is my son. No one gives a shit when guys name their human babies after themselves.”
He had a point.
“I had those ducklings until they died of old age. I was allowed to bring them to school sometimes, and I loved showing them to the other kids. They only shat in my classroom once, and I cleaned it before Mrs. Morrison even knew it happened.”
“You’re a good animal dad.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to be a human dad?”
He thought about it. “Maybe. Baz will need a lot of time to adjust to the idea. He thinks he’s an only child.”
“Same for Mini M?”
Mike popped another fry in his mouth and said around it, “Mini M doesn’t give a fuck. He won’t even notice.”
“I like that about him.”
“Same.” He swallowed. “What about you? Do you want kids?”
“I don’t know. I thought I’d get to where I wanted to be in my career, then decide.” I frowned. “My five-year plan needs to be reevaluated now that things ….” I didn’t want to say imploded but I couldn’t think of anything else.
Mike swiped another fry in sauce.
The thought of having sex for procreation was unfathomable until I’d had sex for pleasure, true, actual pleasure. I couldn’t contemplate it as a function until I got to know what all the fuss was about doing it for fun.
But that sounded silly, even inside my head.
“Maybe one day you’ll revisit your timeline,” Mike said. “You and an equally fashionable man will pop out tiny fashion sprogs who will know how to hail cabs before they know how to walk.”
“Maybe.”
“Your sprogs will have Gucci loafers and talk about—what was it?—print mixing at the dinner table.”
