“Not even a little bit?” he asks, shooting me a charming smile.
“Not even a little bit,” I say. And it’s the truth.
“Well, shit, Kat,” he says, pouting. “I’m genuinely offended.”
I throw my hands up. “You’reoffendedI don’t wanna make a baby with you? What thefuck? Do you have a split personality?”
“Quite possibly. I do have crazy-genes, after all.” He makes a “crazy” face.
I chuckle. “I thought you’d be thrilled I don’t want to make a Faraday with you.”
“Well, yeah, sure, from a practical standpoint, I’m elated. But from an evolutionary standpoint, I’m deeply offended. You should be chomping at the bitto snag my fabulous genes, crazy or not. Look at me. I’m an ideal sperm donor.”
I laugh. “Oh, really? You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself, huh?”
“I’m saying from anevolutionary standpoint. Our only purpose as a species is to reproduce. There’s no other reason for existence. You’re born. You reproduce. You die. That’s the game of life—finding someone to give you hearty spawn so you can live eternally through them.”
“Wowza.” I’m speechless for a moment. “Well, I think I’m gonna have to disagree with you—it sounds to me like you’renotas ideal a sperm-donor as you think. I’d prefer my spawn to have a father who wants them, first of all—that’s always nice—plus, I’d want my spawn to inherit a little bit of humility along with their chiseled cheeks and rock-hard abs.”
“No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. From anevolutionarystandpoint, humility is completely counterproductive. Does a peacock say, ‘Aw, shucks,’ about the feathers on his tail? No, he’s genetically engineered toflaunthis tail. Why? So he can attract the best peahen in the flock.”
“Peahen?”
“The female version of peacock. The name for male and females together is actually ‘peafowl.’”
“And you know this factoid because?”
“Because I grew up with Jonas. The dude’s got so much weird shit trapped in his brain, it’s bizarre.”
I chuckle. “Well, I’m not apeahen, I’m a human. And, either way, I don’t wanna make a baby with you—human, peafowl, or otherwise. Not for really reals and not as part of an evolutionary experiment. I’m too selfish. I’ve seen what it takes from watching my mom, and no thanks—I’m quite happy going to work and yoga classes and doing shitfaced karaoke.” I shrug.
Josh squints at me, apparently disbelieving my sincerity.
I shrug. “What can I say? You can add no-baby-no-thank-you to the list of ways I’m like a dude. I’m missing the baby-gene—it’s not personal to you. I don’t even like going to my friends’ baby showers.” I shrug. “But, hey, I’m only twenty-four. Still a wee little baybay. Check back with me in ten years when my biological clock is ticking like an atomic bomb—who knows if I’ll be chomping at the bit to board the baby-train then? You never know, I guess.”
“Hell no,” Josh says. He swigs his drink. “I won’t give a shit about your ticking clock when you’rethirty-four. Pfft. Optimal child-bearing-age is twenty-six. You’ll be no good to me when you’re thirty-fucking-four.”
“Why thefuckdo you know the ‘optimal’ child-bearing-age for a woman? You’re creeping me out.”
Josh laughs heartily. “Jonas. I told you, the guy knows everything. Ask him the life span of a blue whale or the average rainfall in the Amazon or how to make a cherry bomb out of paperclips and he’ll know it off the top of his head. The dude’s a freak.” He sips his drink. “And Jonas says twenty-six is the magic number. Past that, you’re just a useless sack of ovaries and fallopian tubes, baby.”
I burst out laughing. People aren’t supposed to talk this way. I absolutely love it.
After we finish laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of our conversation, there’s a long, awkward beat. I keep waiting for him to speak, but apparently, he’s waiting on me. Well, hell. I might as well call out the pink elephant sitting smack in the middle of the room.
“So does that mean you might want little Faradays one day with some trampy little twenty-six-year-old? Is that what you’re saying?” I ask.
Josh clears his throat. “Actually, no. I don’t know why I just said all that. I was just trying to be snarky, but it backfired. For some reason, whenever I’m with you, I say crazy shit I’d never normally say. It’s like I get some sort of Kat-specific Tourette’s Syndrome.”
I laugh. “I know the feeling—apparently, it’s a two-way syndrome.”
“Actually, I’ve never been able to picture myself having kids—but, then again, I’ve never been able to picture myself more than two weeks into the future, unless you’re talking about something business related, of course. Ask me to draw up a five-year business plan for Climb & Conquer, and I’m your guy; ask for year-to-year projections on a new investment, I’m on it; but try to pin me down to coffee next week, and I freak out.”
“Gosh, I hadn’t noticed,” I say.
He ignores my sarcasm. “But, hey, same as you—check back with me in ten years. Maybe guys have a biological clock, too.”
I sip my drink, trying to seem casual, but my heart is about to hurtle out of my chest and splatter against the wall. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “Guys don’t have a biological clock,” I say. “Men can unleash their super-sperm any ol’ time, even after every single one of their ball-hairs has turned gray.”
