The Lovers' Nest

Connla Stokes

While listening to the sound of the recently-nested birds twittering on the balcony, the girlfriend lay in her bed – her hands behind her pretty head – and pictured the child she and her boyfriend would make together, soon. Ten little fingers. Ten little toes. The gurgle of pleasure when she tickled its nose, which, she was sure, would be like hers, for her boyfriend’s nose – large and hooked – would look rather out of place on a child.

Instead the baby could have his lips, she conceded. Perhaps even his smile, his most attractive feature, and one which he inherited from his mother. But certainly not his crooked teeth, his pasty skin, and definitely not his hairy arms or knobbly knees – all of which, like the nose, she loved on him in their own unique ways, but not, for the love of God, on her child.

As the girlfriend’s eyes were brown, and the boyfriend’s blue, she hoped the child’s genetics would mix like paints on an artist’s palette into a sweet arresting green – such a colour for a person to have – as she had never met someone with green eyes who wasn’t interesting. Or smart. And their child would be just that, if not a genius. Her DNA and his would no doubt produce what could only be called a wonder child. Of that she was sure and she would tell her lover, when he woke, all of this. She would say, ‘it’s time’, early next year at the latest, and he wouldn’t shudder in fear if she described the child. He’d smile. And say, you’re right, about everything, even the nose, early next year it is.

Then she turned back over, all happy with herself, grinning almost mischievously, slipping her arms back under the warm blanket, out of the cool air which hung in the room, and wrapped herself around his slumbering body – her very own custom-built hot water bottle – and fell asleep listening to his deep breaths and soft snores, as if they were delicate melodies.

II

When he awoke it was to the sound of chirping birds. Scratching his befuddled head, he poked his girlfriend, who seemed to wake as he woke, and asked – ‘Where’s that sound coming from?’

‘The balcony.’

‘…’

‘They’re building a nest.’

‘Right there?’

‘Yes, sweet isn’t it?’

‘…’

‘A little home within a home…’

‘Could be a pain in the arse after a while.’

‘…’

‘Should we move it?’

‘You can’t be serious? You can’t move a nest!’

‘Why not?’

‘You just can’t.’

‘It’s my fucking balcony.’

‘You are unbelievable…’

She rose and exited the bedroom, shutting the bathroom door as she entered with extra vim, to restate her disbelief and anger. Normally on a Sunday they would happily loll in the lazy spirit of the morning, with no pressing engagements, nothing to do, nowhere to go. Eventually hunger would get the better of them but until then they would kiss and talk, run their hands over each other’s bed-warmed bodies. But this morning, out of protest, on behalf of the affronted birds, and because his shortcoming of sensitivity was all too apparent, she would leave him there. She might even just go out and have breakfast by herself, read the papers front to back, leave him to stumble around in his pyjamas, scratch his head and his balls and wonder where she’d gone, begrudgingly toasting his own bread, sulking in solitude and Sunday paperlessness. And if he was still in a huff when she returned she wouldn’t even mention her plan. It would be her little secret that they were having a baby without his nose. Early next year at the latest.

This story is taken from Total Cardboard issue 7, and remains under copyright. For more information see www.totalcardboard.com