Lalala

Two happy new mothers sit at a table near by.
Accompanying them, two baby daughters.
Past the ugly, alien baby stage.
Into the cute, ball of goo phase.
An explosion of pink has erupted all over the young girls.
binding them to an assumed gender.

Sitting next to me studying sheets of paper is a woman,
just reaching the age where the thought of inheriting her mothers mustache constantly haunts her.
As the mothers ‘ooo’ and ‘awe’ over their belly fruit.
I see the studying woman’s biological clock strike midnight.
Ovaries ding and dong off her uterus,
reminding her of the child she does not have.
Estrogen pulses through her veins,
eyes scan the café for a potential father.
Unsuccessful, her eyes fall back to her papers.
Next a wave of denial washes over her.
She convinces herself that her work and career are more important at this moment.

The mothers share stories of first smiles and frilly dresses,
spouting all the accepted lines of motherhood.
Not mentioning the mental break down of last week,
or the fact that their husbands don't look at them anymore. Now that they don't have time to straighten their hair.

From the back of my mind unexpected thoughts rush forward.
Thoughts of coaching the ball team, and helping with science projects.
A phantom ache forms in my ribs, where a future glowing whale of a woman has elbowed me in the night.
Asking for ice cream with only pink and green sprinkles decorating it,
hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and a grilled peanut butter pickle sandwich.

The studious woman’s ovaries are drown out by the rustling of her papers.
The mothers lies by their gurgling daughters
And my maddy instincts are silenced with a grin and charming words, directed at the blonde two tables away.