Logical Determinism by Jennifer Met

Fertility is Served by Maryrose Smyth
Fertility is Served by MK Smyth

Logical Determinism (Or “The Scottish Foreplay”)
The inklings at the base of his spine prodded and pulled at his heart, as if her fingertips, running up and down his back with each thrust, were painting a spot hotter and hotter into his flesh. After it was over, he noticed she was still watching him. He tried to cover this nakedness with just one hand while reaching for the nest of blankets about their feet. “Geez, Lady. What do you want from me?” he asked, but her eyelids just fluttered like she was trying to see inside him, trying to fly away, only coming closer in confusion. Crashing through him, he thought. Out, out, through his head, his heart, and down into his shoes.
“Shall I give you more money?” He had to make little allowances for her to get the groceries and keep the house neat. “Or power?” He said knowing she liked the way electricity enabled her tiny television over the kitchen sink. “Don’t tell me you want more cats. Or babies. Because some things just won’t do,” he said, almost to himself, recalling the peculiar impulses just a moment before.
It was too late, he then realized, and he felt the Act already rooted like a jellied center in his eyes, slick as frog eggs. He paused with one hand draping his too-round, queasy stomach before he rolled into her ready to go again. “No. No! Won’t do, woman,” he hiccupped at her ear, and then sighed at the obvious lie. “Well, at least not yet, you understand. Maybe not ever. I just won’t have it.” He was, after all, the one wearing the pants in this relationship. Her eyes swam to the surface and she pulled back to gaze, pointedly, at that damn spotting before giving a single, violent laugh.
The sound, birthed from the dark cavern of her throat, was too wet. It was weird. It was wonderful. It was something he had never heard before. His bare thighs quivered. “Sing it sister!” someone in the peanut gallery seemed to yell.
Maybe a son wouldn’t be the end of the world. He couldn’t hold her look, but it felt good, leaning into her with the full of his dead weight. His pupils dilated and for a second he even shuddered, his muscles beyond themselves in wild abandon. His body taking on a life of its own as the itch on his lower back, just under the point of her knife, started to grow and rotate into a whirling pool of blood.
Jennifer Met lives in a small town in North Idaho with her husband and children. Her poetry and hybrid work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gulf Stream, Zone 3, Kestrel, Moon City Review, Juked, Sleet Magazine, Apeiron Review, Haibun Today, and elsewhere. Recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize and winner of the Jovanovich Award, she serves as Assistant Poetry Editor for the Indianola Review.
MK Smyth is passionate about poetry, painting, and making stuff.  Preserving the peace in an outer ring planet she and her husband stumbled upon in a Los Angeles foothill canyon light years ago.

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