A Friday spent

Fuckin furious he was. Waiting. Fucking endless it seems making more than it was. Faking. For the life of me, he can't be serious. But she said that she was late, meaning of all things, that, because she was here. And there, we sat. A failed lesson in licking the mixing spoons when they were still attached it seems as if they had a future.

Fuckin glorious she was. Beaming. Fucking breathless she gleamed making less of a deal than she should. Waking. For the life we'll share, he'll be serious. And there, she thought, that was that. A completed lesson in miscommunication, she'll bare the thought of nixing the womb, when they laughed it seemed to bust the sutures.

With misconception breeding reticence like stagnant water breeds mosquitoes in an old tire, they did the same and made the noun the past tense verb.

He haggled, haggard and belabored over the description reading like stereo instructions; he fermented in a still of their own quandaries.

In the stead of a real relationship she took to quavering in questioning taking to term the proposed progeny of perhaps the biggest underachiever that was ever born. Alas, he had smile and wit about him. About her, a lass she had the movement kicking in her abdomen.

Next of kin eclipsing then the fixed in win. All she saw was the emotionally barren corrugated landscape of his soul, with moments of purported promise peeking. Out, he dipped like a waning gibbous in an extremely poor metaphor masking defeat in a disguise of self-deprecation we decried, "I was never one for family, I'd rather take two for the fun of making one."

Fuckin happy they are. Living. Fucking life it seems makes more of itself than one would expect. Aborting. The preconceived notions of conception, they glean from mistakes the graft that keeps on grieving.