Prepartum Depression

Matt Doran

She confidently comes out of the bathroom holding a small, slender, white piece of plastic. “I’m pregnant.”

I see her bent over the toilet after breakfast, coffee and huevos rancheros in reverse. She flicks a piece of bell pepper from the rim that hasn’t quite made it. She doesn’t look so sexy with dribble on her chin. She tells me I have to get rid of my cologne. My ear used to get licked and nibbled because my musk was so appealing. Now bacon dipped in peanut butter turns her on. Her boobs ache, and not for my gentle touch. She’s too tired to do anything, especially that, except at the most random times, like the butcher shop. I want your pork loin, she says. I do not feel like sharing my schnitzel…

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