Deteriorate

-They sit across the table from each other. The white linen cloth stretching between them. Their plates have been emptied. Small talk has filled the space. They’ve reached a type of impasse. They’ve discussed the weather, their day, the silly thing that coworker does, the annoying habit of which the boss is unrelenting. The dinner plates have become round ceramic canvases. Their forks and spoons have spread the remaining oil and sauce about, creating different abstractions. Silence is a response. They know this. She continues the clinking of the silverware to fill the space. She smiles. “You know?” she says. But doesn’t inform him of anything. He looks up to find her, and returns a smile to one of the many she’s offered as a buffer to the incidental details that have comprised the conversation they’ve been having. Perhaps imagining that some sincerity might add a bit of depth. His smile widens as he looks into her eyes. “I was thinking about you earlier,” he admits, “I was thinking about us.” She leans in expectantly, letting the fork clatter across the plate in its fall. “After thirty, women’s fertility wanes. Your eggs deteriorate.” She looks at him with an uncertain smile. She bites her lip. A pained expression accompanies her nervous habit. “There are many kids in the world already,” she asserts. He nods. “Yeah, but there is something about your children being yours.” He looks to her for a trace of confirmation. She forces the smile and continues at her lip. “I’ve wanted to see a bit of you in a child, a bit of me, but we deteriorate. Your eggs, my cells, our cells. Time passes.” Her smile becomes pained and she shakes her head, slightly. “Yeah, time passes,” she huffs, “I so wanted to have kids. I imagined we would. Now, I’m not sure what’s possible.” Her expression loses all traces of smiles. “We know it’s not you,” she waits on him. He nods. “That’s what I was thinking about.” Her eyes fall. He reaches for her hand. She gently tugs it away. He leans into the table, attempting to find her eyes. She doesn’t look up. “I can give up on the things I wanted before I met you, I can give up on some of the dreams we had together, I can even give up on the dreams I’ve yet to have. I cannot give you up.” He reaches further to find her hand, at the edge of the table. Her hold firm around his. The tears stream. They sit together at the table. The white table cloth crumpled beneath their hold.