Roadkill – Sigmund Meets Bambi

For a young buck of twenty something, couple's therapy sounds profoundly middle aged. But it offers a truth. Sooner or later we all stare into the barrel, a hedonistic cornucopia or a metaphorical rifle, wooed or frog marched into decisions made by the other. Victims of the ego ideal. What does a woman want? I wanted her.

I catch sight of her reflection. Responsibility weighs heavy. She didn’t always look this way. Self consciously appraising her body. Caught in a limitless loop of desire. She presses down the high rise of her belly. The game's trappings of a love triangle. Hounded by limers, their necks stretching on a leash to kiss, tell, bark, devour. I didn’t consider the consequences. Affections unfettered, unconditional. I gambolled, just wanting her.

Silence, mine. Talk, mine. Life, no longer mine. Was I being misogynistic? Chauvinist thoughts form bitter ammunition for words unspoken. Finger raised, your question punches through.
"How did you feel about the ultrasound?"
Transported there, to the noose, the gallows, the shock. Dry throat, eyes prickled, air sucked from my lungs, not the expected response to an acknowledged virility. Father. Daddy. The lump rose in my throat. I took a breath, the plunge. Dare I let it out? It was the first I knew, seeing the scan. She’d waved it in euphoria.
"Somedays. Sometimes, I see her as roadkill."

There, I'd said it. It was out. Was she really mine? Was her child really mine? We were barely two together before she’d doubled. An unnegotiated twist. A betrayal. A misfire. Did I want her? Them? Us? Trapped, I imagined a queue of suitors. We weren’t just a one night stand. We weren’t an item either, no exclusivity.

Roadkill – Sigmund Meets Bambi

Twisted modern need, desire measured against elementary lists and priorities. A paternity test would disintegrate our trinity. No rattle for Bambi. No compass for family. Sure footed in clover. Heads bowed to prey against the roar of choices taken away. Doubt screamed loud. Did she really want me? Did she really want three? We two could never be one again. Them, against me. We were in it like a tricorn hat, each of us pointing in different directions. Even the unborn have a destiny.

She gazes at you, my analyst, with a wry eye. You’ve agreed to couple's counselling, an emergency extension of your services. She sits. Silence stony. Eyes still, behind a dammed river of words. Her joy unleashed, radiating a thwarting heat. Stepping from a plane into a foreign land, unsteady. Holding a hand rail. Holding a life. Grasping on to anything as an anchor to assuage fragility. She holds on to me. What does love mean? Nervously, she calls you Sigmund. She laughs. Jokes shared to break the tension. Touching her stomach by way of introduction; the precious pearl within, her dear heart. She stretches out her arm and smiles. You shake her hand. Is this a mistake? You meet her gaze. She looks down at her belly.

"Bambi meet Sigmund."