you're too young & eager to love

2 postings in one day! I blame my muse of a wife.

Experimenting with a new character. A wife who, with her husband, has to find a surrogate in order to have a child. The surrogate moves in with them. Because, why not? Added interactions!

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This is it, she thinks, an invasion of her space.
(She tries chiding herself later while soaking in overly hot bathwater.)

Her hair is long and very straight, cut bluntly near her shoulders, and she wears glasses that look more suited for fashion than necessity. This is how she presents herself, standing in the foyer with her hand on her husband’s arm. He is tall, broad - almost too handsome with his demigod good looks. He is also overzealous, his grin stretched wide across his mouth, his body brimming with excited heat. (Claudette half expects to look down and see the outline of his cock, semi-hard, against his jeans.) She curls her fingers, coral polished nails digging into the muscle, and the corner of his lips quiver with annoyance but, to her approval, understanding.

The surrogate is pretty. She thinks her husband might wrap her in a bear hug, he’s just so overjoyed at this monumental event, but instead he shakes her hand warmly then goes to fetch the bags.

Claudette smiles; it isn’t necessarily warm. To her credit, she shows the woman the house and offers sweet tea too often.

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The house is a monument to their relationship.

They are beautiful in the way that propriety should be. Harkening Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman, only with less southern heat and alcohol. They are wedding smiles caught behind glass picture frames, linked hands during evening walks, the soft laughter of intimacy during the night.

But there is no child. There cannot be one, the doctor tells them, his medical eyes pointedly directed at Claudette in her camel colored sweater and simple, clean, silver jewelry.

There is, however, an infidelity. A blazing stain on her wedding sheets. (She changes the color to soothing lavender afterwards.) They speak around it instead of discussing it, and she passes her cool hand across her stomach with blaming bitterness.

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The surrogate, Romy, helps to decorate the nursery. This is called nesting, and it supposed to be a bonding experience. The first of many small attempts to help a mother attach to a child that does not grow inside of her, but Hugh chooses colors that she finds garish and insulting.

There is nothing private about their interactions – Romy’s easy laughter at his obvious excitement, the way he eyes her stomach daily, waiting for the swelling to occur, the almost constant appreciation he has of her – but Claudette feels left separate and apart. More than that, she feels uninterested. When she tries to paint decorative trim near the window, tiny blue and yellow French swirl patterns, her fingers are not skilled enough and the lines brush together. They are spidery and clumsy.

In the end, Hugh decides to paint over them.

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She drinks Merlot. A tiny bit too much, though Hugh brushes the subject softly.

She keeps an eye out for the day marked in red on the kitchen calendar – her small handwriting neatly noting when her husband must leave for business. She’ll drive him to the airport, despite the city traffic, and kiss him with a tenderness that almost hurts her heart. He has a tendency to be overly doting, occasionally, when he has to leave, and he strokes her cheek and presses his thumb against her lipstick colored mouth. As though he thinks she might be about to tell him that leaving could hurt worse.

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