Terms (July 20, 2009. Issue 7.)

Maudlin.

Pathetic.

He hates the word coward.

Douche bag is overdone. Stupid, really. Seriously, calling another dude a douche bag. How did it start? Who actually uses a douche bag?

He tries not to think about it.

He heard something on the radio about the average age for American men to marry being twenty-eight. He missed the marrying age for females. Maybe he’s blocked it out. He started thinking about actually being married one day when he was in middle school. Weird because about the only thing he remembers from middle school is the endless showing of movies warning kids about sexually transmitted diseases. Who’d want to have sex?

He shudders thinking about the blown up images of blistery dicks, warts filled with pus surrounding vaginas. Bright red sores that burn. That spread disease. One part of him refused to believe any of this was true. Another part dreaded ever finding out how true it all may be.

Then the movies about HIV. Wasting away. Never knowing if you were a carrier. All so complicated. Mr. Reynolds like to warn the class to avoid sex like the plague. Then he’d laugh at his joke. “No, seriously kids, just wait for that someone special. Get married. One life partner. Play it safe.”

At twelve, that sounded plausible. Plausible but he knew things probably wouldn’t turn out that way. By the time he graduated from college, his mother was with her third husband. He had seen numerous lovers during the unmarried moments. Mr. Reynolds retired the year he started high school. Maybe he was a rare bird who only had one partner. Ever. Anything is possible.

Why didn’t this happen when he was eighteen? It’d be so much easier.

Twenty-three now. Five more years and he’d be the ideal male American age for marrying. He has spent the summer looking for a decent job. Economy sucks. Worthless degree. He’s planning on borrowing more money. Going to graduate school.

Three weeks ago, L held up a bag and handed it to him.

“This isn’t a joke, is it?”

L shook her head. “I have a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling. Are you ready to find out?”

The pill was making her depressed. She wanted to try this new female condom. On the days she felt “safe,” he pulled out. The pill was so much easier than having to get out so quickly, with so little warning.

They called it the dipstick while they waited for the result. Jovial. Ha ha.

Then there was no more laughter.

They both sat on the floor in the bathroom.

Seems melodramatic retelling the story.

Seemed like their only option at the time.

Sit. Silence.

Then L cried.

Of course she was pregnant. She figured she was nine weeks. Never said a word about missing the past periods. She thought her cycle was screwy because of stopping the pill, because she was training for a marathon, because she was stressing over the GRE. But something didn’t feel right.

They had just celebrated their six month anniversary. L kept track of things like that. He had no idea when they had their first date or what was even considered their first date. They’d been hanging out in college, usually with a group of friends. They’d go on hikes as a group, out for pizza as a group, watch movies together. L claims their first date was when they went to see a play at the university. She says it was the first time it was just the two of them. He remembers the two of them meeting for breakfast but she said that didn’t count since they were always doing their laundry next door to the restaurant. It was more a chore than a date. The play was a musical. That felt like a chore. They didn’t even hold hands. Regardless, to L, that marked their first date.

He remembers the first time they slept together. After their group of friends split up for the night, they felt like walking. It wasn’t planned. Just like this pregnancy. It just happened. They were at a playground, somewhere they’d never dream of having sex, and they had started kissing. It all seemed so natural.

Isn’t pregnancy natural?

L charts everything. Rainfall. Menstrual cycles. Nights it drops below freezing. Movies seen. Books read. Money earned. Money spent.

Next: Three weeks discussing the pros and cons. Get married. Don’t get married. Have baby. Continue dating. Move in together. Adopt. Abort. Don’t tell friends. Ask friends for advice. Schedule abortion. Cancel abortion. Take prenatal vitamins. Give up alcohol. No more caffeine. Apply for jobs. Week nine. Ten. Eleven. A decision needs to be made.

He remembers the movies about pregnancies, the images of fetuses. He can’t sleep at night.

When they sleep together, L cries.

Week twelve he seriously thinks of enlisting. He hates the war. Curses Republicans for starting this mess. Curses Obama for hunting Osama. Tells L they need to think things over separately for a few days. Says he’s going to pitch a tent in the woods.

“It’s week twelve and you’re taking off to camp alone for a few days? Get your head straight You’re an idiot!”

Idiot.

But really, he knows he’s a coward. He knows she’ll end up going alone.

And he won’t enlist.

He won’t even take off camping alone.

He’s not one hundred percent L will go.

He thinks of the hideous STD images. Imagines his dick covered with oozing sores. Believes that’s what he deserves.

Maudlin.

Pathetic.