Temporary Secretary

Part 68

25 October 1981

11:00am Sunday

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You had been off work since the first of September, your 31st week. You were hesitant, but it was what your doctor recommended, and your body was beginning to wear down.

It was only going to grow a little bit more. It couldn't get worse! You couldn't believe there was another week to go.

But god... one week. Only one week!

This was because you fucked once last February. That was ages ago, it seemed.

You laid in bed. You didn't want to move. One more week of this, you could just nest and brood. Why should you need to contribute. Paul could have sandwiches or beans for dinner. This was all his doing, after all.

You felt full, but that much wasn't new. You laid on your side, mind numb. The baby squirmed and kicked, but you were lethargic, sinking into the mattress.

Paul had woken up before you had. Must be doing something, you could hear him in the flat.

Your blinking was slow.

There was nothing to do but wait. It was just waiting now. You didn't feel like doing anything productive. All that had to be done was done.

You heard the footsteps approach, then the door open. You didn't turn your head.

He came into your field of view as he walked toward the window. He was dressed already, a knit cardigan and button up.

He opened up the curtains, and you flinched in disagreement, the light coming into the room. Your arm wrapped around your face with a groan.

"It's a beautiful day outside!" Paul said, cheery as ever, turning his head to you.

With difficulty, you rolled over in bed, pulling the blanket over yourself.

You felt the weight of him beside you on the mattress. You couldn't see, but could tell he was hovering.

A cloying hand was placed on your shoulder over the blanket.

"C'mon lovie, don't you want to enjoy the last bit of time we have, just us?"

You shivered when his hand moved to your hip.

"Just leave me to starve to death while your offspring leeches nutrients from my swollen husk of a body." You said.

Forget about your philosophy of getting out of bed being the healthy thing to do. It just wasn't worth it.

Paul gave a breath.

"Are you really going to not leave the house for the next eight days?" He said.

You groaned.

"Eight days..." You said. "Eight more days..."

There was a pause, so you answered.

"Yes." You said.

He was hovering again.

"Come on," He said, reminding you of a scolding mother.

Hah, fitting.

"It'll only make you feel worse." He said. "Laying about, feeling sorry for yourself."

"I can hardly move." You said. "If you're looking to go to a restaurant then fuck in a bathroom stall, I'm afraid that's off."

He was giggling, but you didn't feel up to rolling over.