the.hunger
We were at the Waffle House when it happened. Walking out, as we walked in, holding hands high like a trophy. Young, scruffy, irresponsible-looking fuck ups, like us, a three-year-old cherub dangling between them. "They're...like us!" I whisper and it hit. Mine, mine, mine was the bullet through my brain at the vision of this dumb bundle of purity. Pure, sweet love -- that's what babies are.
Inside, my honesty gets the better of me and in between sending back the wrong order of hash browns and savoring my allotted half-slice of Trent's bacon, I spill.
"We would make good parents," I lie. "We could teach our baby anything we wanted."
Trent doesn't believe me for a second, but he's too nice to tell me how he really feels. "I'm not ready for a baby," he ejects, stubby fingers pushing down an endless chain of links, memes and videos. I watch him finger his slut love of a phone and sigh loudly, almost ridiculously. He looks up, cringing. "What?" he offers. "I'm not talking about now, I'm not ready either!" I cry. "I just think that our baby would be so cute, and creative, and just -- delicious, you know?" I giggle at using the wrong adjective. "Our baby would be tasty!" I grin. Trent's not amused and puts his head back down, starts raping his phone a little more.
I bang my fist on the table and squeal, "Damnit I WANT A BABY." He rolls his eyes and mouths the word 'No.' Damnit indeed.
We pay at the register, a long, almost uncomfortable silence if not for the cashier's hard-to-understand accent, which produced at least one exchange of glances and two giggles.
Outside, the cold rages on. A portly sonofabitch walks by dragging a terrier on a rope and I get a twinge. Its duller and more muted than the baby twinge, and I think, a baby would surely hit the spot.
Back at home we part ways, him to the study for full screen porn while I linger in the kitchen, thumbing through a Details left randomly on the counter. I come across a macro closeup of a peach pit and I grab my scissors to snip it out. Its perfectly detailed enough for my collage pile, and I flip the page to verify the back isn't something even better. Nope, just a diaper ad. With a smiley baby face. And fluffy-soft baby hair. So delightfully playful and alive. Fuck that peach, I want this baby. I go on like this for an hour and eventually Trent ventures to the fridge for general snack hunting. "Whatcha up to?" he asks mindlessly and I'm sure if I replied "Shaving monkeys," he would've 'uh-huh'd me along. Instead, I hold up my latest cut out and swoon, "Isn't this baby so beautiful?" I smile so big my eyes squint in the process; Trent shudders and runs back to the study sans snack.
"What a dick!" I loudly proclaim, and go back to cutting up babies.
My obsession is silly, but as weeks pass by and I don't get what I want, I start jonesing for that baby. Every giggling goofball in a one mile radius is in the corner of my eye. I feel like I'm suddenly addicted to crack...without all the dry mouth. Trent is out so often that sometimes I think he's already started his tour, a 3-show jaunt through the tri-state area.
I haven't exactly been easy to be around. One night I found myself whispering baby in my sleep. We can't even go out to restaurants anymore, I'm such a mess! Every cooing cuddler is a feast for my eyes and I don't see anything else. We usually end the night with my quiet, controlled crying on the ride home, as it drunkenly dawns on me that Trent is not going to give me what I want.
Its another night alone, on the couch, and I'm sunken deep beyond a cashmere blanket. TV is meaningless and my lack of interest in life overwhelms me. No baby, no happiness. No peace. Trent comes home two hours later and the channel hasn't changed. "I hope you're happy," I spit out as he walks through the door. He makes a face and walks past me, pushing his amp's squeaky wheels across the wood floor. "I HOPE YOU'RE HAPPY!" I scream for good measure when he gets to the study. My biological clock is ticking like a bitch!
He storms back out to the living room and gets in my face. "What the fuck? Why is a baby so important all of a sudden?"
I look down sheepishly and shrug. "It's a hunger almost," I finally say, "It's an urge to have something, like it will complete me." Trent shakes his head, obviously failing to understand. "It won't!" he yells and storms upstairs to bed. Now I know -- this road ends. My life feels hopeless as I trudge up the stairs, two hours of mindless TV later. I'm grateful Trent's asleep as I toss and turn, too depressed to find solace in sleep.
The workday swims by, my head under water. I leave early so I can stop at the grocer for a giant bottle of wine, to drown my sorrows and possibly kill myself if I'm lucky.
The alcohol is against the back wall and my legs carry me there like I've been shot. I can see the mind-numbing substances calling my name and I begin to walk down the frozen food aisle when I stop. At the edge of the aisle stands a cart, a babbling toddler strapped to the seat. This baby appears alone and I walk closer, searching for the owner of the cart. One aisle over in the dairy section, I see a harried woman with mismatched shoes feeling up eggs. She's distracted, seemingly having a peaceful orgasm, and I grab the cart, tugging it to the middle of the frozen foods aisle. Now this is going to be tricky, I think, and with that, I yank this baby out of its holding cell and shove him in my purse. Thank god I brought the tote!
Immediately the whining starts. "Mama! Wahhh Mama!" is all I really understand and I can feel the store's reaction, starting with that harried woman.
"Henry?! HENRY?!?!" followed by the stomping of mismatched shoes means I need to run. So I run, witnesses be damned, and I throw my bag in the backseat of my car and peel out of there. I haven't had this much energy in months!
When I get home, I'm ecstatic to see Trent is out. Me and my new friend enter the house amidst whimpers from him and whispers from me. "Shhh," I coo, motherly instinct kicking in already. I lay him down on the couch, adoringly in my gentle touch. "Mmmmm baby." I mumble, rubbing his tummy, when I hear the crunch of the gravel driveway outside. Shit, Trent!
Minutes later, Trent steps out of his car after listening to the end of Green Day's 'Tré!' and dreading going inside. Life had been so hard at home lately.
He walks through the front door, surprised to see no one on the couch feeling sorry for themselves. "Babe?" he calls out tentatively and he hears nothing. Well, almost nothing. The disgusting sound of an animal eating came from the study, and Trent moaned as he figured a raccoon had somehow gotten in. Solely unprepared, he grabs a golf club and twists the doorknob slowly. When the door's finally open, he looks up to see his girl, back to him. "What the fuck are you doing in here?! It sounded so gross!" he cries, worried about this new coolness coming from her. She flips around to reveal a small skull in her hands and a face streaked with blood. She grins, putrid and filthy, and licks her lips. "I told you -- I was hungry for a baby."