by Liv Bennett
“Oh, Bree, come on. I’ve got work to do. Have you already forgotten about that Craigslist ad with Adam’s picture on it?” I turn on my laptop and enter my password, waiting for Bree to get back to her work. But she doesn’t. Of course, she doesn’t. If it was up to her, she’d bring a cup of coffee and settle on the couch, crossing her legs yoga style, and chat the morning away.
“Uh, which ad are you talking about? I most certainly did not send you anything with Adam’s picture.”
“Yes, you did, like, a week ago.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Letting out an impatient breath, I grab my phone to retrieve the message Bree sent me just to prove my point, despite the work time I’m losing.
“Here,” I say and scroll down through the message folder to locate hers. Only, the message isn’t there. I scroll down to older messages, although I’m pretty sure I received the message on Monday a week ago. Yet, the message doesn’t show up. Either my phone is eating up some of the messages, or something fishy is going on. “Okay, I can’t find the message here, but I’m sure I received a message from you about Adam.”
“Well, I’d say ‘if you say so,’ but I swear I didn’t send you anything about Adam.”
Bree walks around the desk and leans down beside me, as I open my inbox on my laptop and run a thorough search using “The miracle of the Miracle Mile,” as keyword. When results come out null, I run the same search on Google. Bingo! I find the ad on craigslist, but when I click on it, it says, “This posting has been deleted by its author.”
It’s not all gone, though. After all, isn’t it true that nothing posted on the internet is ever totally deleted? I click on the cached link, and boom! Adam’s naked torso fills the screen.
“I’d definitely remember it if I’d sent you that,” Bree says, gaping at the laptop screen.
She barely regains her composure, when I elbow her hip to make her stop drooling.
“Who else would send it to me, if not you?”
She doesn’t respond, and instead reads the text on the ad, and breaks into another laugh. “This is hilarious. I mean, it can’t be possible. What were those women thinking? There can’t be people out there desperate enough to put up an ad like this.”
“I know, right?”
Her laughter diminishes, and she turns to gaze at me. “Tell me you’re not bothered by it.”
“What? No.” I don’t want to make a bigger fool of myself than I already did with farting. Oh, god. How could I have not held myself until I found a bathroom?
“Good, because there’s no way Adam is going to cheat on you.”
“You think so?” That shouldn’t have come out of my mouth.
This time, she rolls her eyes. “Adam knows you so well. That’s why he asked me to keep quiet about his morning meeting with Chloe Hawkins.”
“Excuse me?”
“She’s hot, but that shouldn’t bother you, because Adam only has eyes for you. Well, I’d love to stay and talk with you until the sun goes down, but I have a full day of work ahead of me, and my boss isn’t really a forgiving one,” she says, while I work to hold the smile breaking out on my lips. “You are coming to lunch with me to spy on my date, and I don’t accept no for an answer.”
“Okay, I will,” I say and watch her go.
Adam is aware of my jealousy issues? Just fantastic. I bet he’s aware of his Miracle-Mile fan club, too. I let out an irritated breath.
If it wasn’t Bree, then who sent me the message? And how the hell did it get deleted from my inbox? I’d have started thinking I’m going crazy, if I hadn’t found the ad on Google, but the fact that the ad itself was erased doesn’t exactly calm my nerves.
Two hours pass without hearing anything from Adam. The meeting should have been over long ago, yet, he neither called me nor left a message at his office. This, however, isn’t unusual of him. He must be on the construction site and simply have forgotten to call me. I shouldn’t worry. No, I shouldn’t. But I do, and the bloated feeling comes back again as suddenly as it came last time. But this time I have to release a long chain of loud gas to ease the pain.
The bloating can’t possibly be related to my insecurities about Adam, can it? I’d better set up an appointment with my doctor, or better yet, with my therapist, if I want to keep my position as the manager of Edelman Constructions. Even being the major share-holder won’t be enough to keep me occupying this office, if I keep on bombarding gas more poisonous than biological weapons every time I picture Adam with another woman.
Shit, here it goes another loud fart. If it’s because of acupuncture, I’m going to stop it on the spot. I’d rather have the fogginess in my head those fertility drugs gave me than way-too-relaxed muscles.
After I open the other window and draw fresh air into my lungs, I call Dr. Fowler’s office to ask for an urgent appointment. When the receptionist asks for the reason for the urgency, I find myself explaining to her not just the bloating but also the farting to justify the emergency. Her cracked voice right after hearing my problem makes me uneasy, but she gives me an appointment for four p.m. Hoping Dr. Fowler will be able to fix my problem before anyone else is exposed to my farts, I go back to work and spend the rest of the morning reading the accounting reports of a current project, then grab my handbag to take Bree out to her blind lunch date.
We take my car, and I drive the three blocks to the restaurant.
“He said he’s going to wear a navy-blue suit and carry a black suitcase,” Bree says, while applying a dark-red lipstick. Her thick, blonde hair is flat around her shoulders, and her brown eyes look larger with eyeliner framing them.
I pull out the key and open the door to head out. “There must be half a dozen guys wearing something like that.”
“Oh, and a red tie.”
“How romantic.” I slam the door and hurry across the street. As I guessed, the bistro is bustling with businessmen in suits. I scan around for a bald guy, because he’s most likely without hair—not having the courage to send a picture of himself—and locate a navy-blue-suited guy without any hair at all and wearing a red tie, at one of the booths. Aside from the lack of hair on his head, he looks handsome with his blue eyes, thick lips, and spotless, fair skin. I sit at a table close enough to be able to take his picture without raising eyebrows, and as soon as I send the picture to Bree, I hasten back to my car.
Bree’s sullen face welcomes me. “I knew he’d turn out to be bald.”
“He may be bald, but he’s not ugly. I say give him a chance and go check him out yourself. He has an atypical sexiness about him.”
“I don’t know.”
I insert the key into the ignition and turn to her. “What are you gonna lose if you spent half hour enjoying a free meal with a guy who, according to your words, is funny and smart?”
“Yeah, I forgot about the free-meal aspect of it. And, who knows, he might have a cock the size of my forearm.”
“Oh, shut up. That’s disgusting.”
“Your fart was disgusting. This is just a simple comment.”
I guess I’ll never be able to get rid of the label I brought on myself. “Whatever. Are you gonna keep thinking and lose the chance of meeting a possibly nice guy, or take a risk and see what life has in store for you?”
“Okay, okay. I’m going. But, if he’s not half as attractive as you’re selling him to be, you’ll owe me a lunch.”
“Deal,” I confirm and watch her leave the car.
“Hey, what’s that?” I call out, pointing toward the small business card attached to the windshield wiper.
Bree walks around the car, pulls the card out of the wiper, and leans into the window on my side. “Loving wives,” she reads it before handing it to me. “Looks like a housekeeper’s ad to me.”
I analyze the dark-red square with golden cursive letters on it. Doesn’t look at all like a housekeeper ad, unless they clean the house with French-maid suits and do lap dance in addition to cleaning.
“I�
��m leaving. See you in a bit,” Bree says, taking my attention back to her, as she runs across the street. She might have been a little disappointed over the fact that her date lacked hair, but the cheerful way she’s walking toward the bistro is a sure sign that she thinks he might actually be a good catch.
Adam doesn’t come back to work in the afternoon, nor does he call. My mind, luckily, is too occupied with the intestinal bloating to waste on any troubling thoughts on him. As I gather my handbag and head toward my door, Adam appears at the doorway, with a heart-melting smile attached to his lips.
“Hey, beautiful, are you going somewhere?” he asks, his eyes roaming over my body. I gasp for air and stifle the little moan that was about to escape. His voice, his gaze, his simple presence can easily make my knees go weak. Why should other women react differently?
“Yeah, heading out to...” I try to find an excuse to cover up my doctor’s appointment. I don’t want him worrying about me and more importantly, he shouldn’t know about my farting, or any sexiness I might have in his eyes will vanish in an instant. “To the dentist. I’m having my teeth cleaned.”
“Oh, okay.” He steps in and closes the door behind him before pulling me into his arms. “I’ve missed you, baby. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I...” I can’t respond because his lips take up residence on mine, making me moan and drop my handbag to the ground. I open up for him and let his tongue get a taste of my hunger for him, licking and sucking it back. His expert lips calm my agitated nerves, and I wrap my arms around him, hanging on to him as if I’m hanging on to life. His hands glide down my sides and grab my hips, pressing me against his hard-on.
He’s already aroused.
Any other day, I’d think it’s for me, but not today. I wish I hadn’t seen that woman he’d met in the morning, then I could enjoy this brief make-out session with Adam.
I draw my lips and body back, though my arms are still tight around his neck. “I have to go.”
“No, you don’t. You must have five minutes for me.” He moves his hand down, below my abdomen, and pulls up my skirt to cup my crotch. I moan through my lips, as his finger slide under the seam of my panties and touch my swollen flesh. I’m ready for him to take me, even without foreplay. He has that power over me.
He sinks his finger inside my opening and pulls me back to him. My head drops on his shoulder, and I bite his skin through his shirt as his finger explores my insides. I have no way to escape this delicious insult and give up all too soon.
I don’t usually agree to have sex in my office, but this is an exception. I need to erase this doubt and know he’s mine.
“Let me fill your sweet pussy with my come,” he whispers into my ear, then sticks his tongue inside, while his finger works its way deeper into my flesh.
His come in my pussy? Dr. Fowler will smell it on me if she comes anywhere near my abdomen. “I can’t.” I sigh mixed with another moan, as the first waves of orgasm hits though me.
“Yes, you can.” He pushes the tip of his finger against the walls inside me, spreading the ecstasy all around. I feel my whole body convulse under his wicked touches, while barely noticing his eyes intently watching me through my hazing rapture.
When the orgasm ends, along with the spasms, he pulls his finger out and sticks it into my mouth to let me get a taste of myself, before his tongue sweeps my lips. “Now it’s my turn.” His hips pin me against the wall, his cock bulging out through his slacks.
I consider going down on him, but somehow he needs more time to come in my mouth than in my vagina. He claims that my mouth is simply too cozy to leave it so soon. But I know better; my oral skills aren’t as up to par as his are. Right now, as much as I want to taste his desire for me, I just have enough time to barely make it to the clinic.
“I really should go.” I manage to escape his tight grip and open the door.
“You’ll pay for it at home. Just so you know.”
“With pleasure,” I reply.
“Don’t be so sure about it.” He runs his hands through his hair, and I have to turn away, or I’ll jump back at him for being so seductive. How I could have overcome his sexual aura for three long years is beyond me.
As a final attempt to escape the effect of his seizing eyes on me, I force myself out of my office. Even if Dr. Fowler won’t find a trace of Adam’s sperm in me, I wonder whether she’ll see the signs of my recent orgasm.
I don’t wait longer than five minutes at Dr. Fowler’s clinic and am quickly ushered into her office. She greets me standing up and shakes my hand. “Jenny tells me you’ve had some uncomfortable digestive issues at work.”
“Uncomfortable is an underestimation. My co-worker was present,” I admit, feeling my cheeks blushing.
“Do you have diarrhea or constipation along with the bloating?”
“No.”
“Any medication or supplementation that we don’t have on your records, including herbal teas?”
“No. Nothing except for the acupuncture sessions I’m having once every week for the last three months.”
“I haven’t heard of any such side effect of acupuncture, but I’m not exactly expert in it.” She types something into her computer and motions toward the examination table. “When was the first day of your last period?”
I frown, while trying to remember the date. And when I can’t, I pull my phone out of my purse to check the calendar. “March 21st.”’
She averts her eyes from the computer screen to land them on me. “That’s five weeks ago.”
I’m usually very regular with my period, never going longer than twenty nine days. Can it be another side effect of acupuncture? Or simply its intended effect?
Before I can verbalize my thoughts, Dr. Fowler says, “Pregnancy is one of the most common causes of bloating among women. I’ll order some blood work just to check up on everything.”
Pregnant? Oh, god! Can I really be pregnant? Adam will freak out. I am freaking out, if the shaking of my hands is a sign of anything.
“I know how you and your husband wish to have a child, but let's not pop out the champagne just yet before we see the lab results,” Dr. Fowler comments with an apologetic smile on her face.
I nod, still unable to push away the possibility of carrying a tiny life inside me. Dr. Fowler asks a few more questions about my health then requests me to take my clothes off below the waist.
I do as she says and lie down on the exam table while a nurse prepares the ultrasound machine. Dr. Fowler examines my abdominal region thoroughly, inside and out, with her hands before grabbing the ultrasound pads. “It’s a little early to detect pregnancy with ultrasound at this point.” She runs the pads from my mound up to my navel. “You seem to have an excessive amount of gas accumulated in your intestines. If it’s not due to pregnancy, it might be related to something you ate recently in the best case. In the worst case, you might have inflammation in your bowels or even lactose or gluten intolerance. Try to eliminate the consumption of high-fiber and diary food from your diet for a few days until we get your blood and stool analyses done.”
“Stool analysis?”
“Yes. Just to rule out anything serious. Jenny will explain to you what you need to know about it in a minute.”
Jenny comes into the room with a plastic bag in her hand and describes to me how I should collect my stool, using the stool collection kit in the plastic bag, without having it mixed with urine or water from the toilet bowl. Staring at the kit she hands me, I really wish it’s the pregnancy and not some kind of bowel disorder. She even goes into some beyond-fascinating details about how I can do a preliminary analysis myself and get a sense of whether it looks healthy to a naked eye. I think I’d rather leave any kind of analysis related to my excrement to the experts in that area.
And, there’s absolutely no way I’ll be talking to Adam about it, much less ask for help from him. I’d prefer farting a dozen more times in front of Bree than having Adam think of me as anything less t
han sexy.
I work really hard to contain my excitement while waiting in the waiting room to get my blood test results. I notice I bit all my nails, when Dr. Fowler comes out to the waiting room with a pleasant smile parting her lips.
“Am I?” I jump up to my feet and stride toward her.
She nods. “Yes, you are, according to the results. You might still want to bring us a stool sample so we can check out everything.”
I don’t know if I should hug her for giving me the best news ever. “I will,” I say and shake her hands eagerly. With the stool kit squeezed in my purse, I rush out of the clinic and grab my phone to share the news with Adam, but cancel the call before it can go through. I want to see his face when he hears the words come out of my mouth. Want him to sweep me off the ground and spin me around with the sheer happiness the existence of our baby will give him.
The minutes in my car are torturous, and my pounding heartbeats aren’t helping. It’ll be a miracle if I can make it to home before I end up in emergency for a heart attack.
We will have a baby. A tiny reflection of us. The proof of our love.
A fragile being totally dependent on us.
I can’t exactly say it’s calming. Will I make a good mother? Will I be able to take care of him? I have no tangible experience with kids. I have neither changed a diaper nor fed a baby in my life. The one time I remember holding a baby is when I visited an employee after she’d given birth. And I nearly dropped the child. I shouldn’t worry about all those, though. Adam has enough experience with children, and I guess I’ll have it in me once the baby is born.
I run to the elevator in the parking lot, not for fear this time, but for the pure thrill of the forthcoming minutes when I break the news to Adam.
Only, he’s not home. A post-it note grabs my attention. Disappointment washes over me when I read his hand-written note. “Going for a jog. Will be back at 7:30.”
That’s in two hours. How am I supposed to wait two frigging hours? And, will he seriously run for that long? Then I remember his plans to join a 10k marathon in two weeks. I guess I shouldn’t make a problem out of it. He won’t have spare time for any type of hobby with his new duties as a father after the baby is born.
