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You are all women to me; that, as I understand it, is the nature of marriage. You tolerate me with grace, as all women do, more or less, so wear the pink pants for me, if you don’t mind, the pants I’d have all women wear, and all of you please walk up ahead and climb the stairs, but do turn back to look at me with your billion eyes, and make a silhouette of one or two breasts each, and in return I’ll do whatever, whenever you tell me. And lose the shirts, please, if that’s okay. You wanted the vote, I know, you made that clear, you marched for that. And you appear to want to be consulted, not merely informed, on issues that don’t concern you, which puzzles me, but tell me anyway, while you’re in those pants, of course, and I’ll consult you. Anything more complicated than that confuses me. For example, you seem, and by you I mean your plural most delectable selves, you seem to support contradictory viewpoints, when what I’m listening for is a single clear word of unambiguous longing, longing for me. Otherwise I’m paralyzed by doubt. I’ve taken a poll, the only way I know how, by asking you the same questions relentlessly since the day we met. The results, as they say, are in. By a small margin, women agree I’m a reasonable if not an overwhelming candidate for serious coupling, not entirely unattractive, to some degree a provider. And that’s supposed to satisfy me. On balance, if I had my life to live over on that basis, I just, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t put myself through it. According to the same poll, the countless men I represent approve of me. If my opinion counts for anything.
Original Copyright © February 05, 2007
Revised Copyright © February 04, 2026
My favorite Thursday couple, smug but theoretically generous, sufficient to one another and seemingly self-contained, aspired to something more. To hear her talk of the baby was to be present at his creation. Of words she formed his little head with its wispy hair redolent of soap and spilled milk. She pressed the word Lips to the word Forehead and graced the baby’s path with choice and welcoming wide horizons. Yes, she was rhetorical. Yes, she had time on her hands. She wouldn’t be a casual mother, but too much planning had its perils, too, and she was nothing if not alive to the perils. The baby, the baby so long desired, the baby reluctant or eager, ready or not, was never consulted. At night in bed, her long warm body nestled along his long warm body insistently stirring, his arm around her waist and breath hot on her neck, she wanted to shake herself free of the future and fuck, but the baby, the unborn baby whose room was ready but whose parents were not, the baby was sleeping in ignorance too near, too lightly, and might wake if she did, might wake into fear in a dark room unfamiliar alone. She took his hand in hers and pressed it to her breast and hoped he’d fall asleep. The husband had no idea what she thought. He figured it was something to do with the nursery and painted it seven times over, once as an aquarium, once as a baseball diamond with fans in the stands, never guessing it was him she wanted to remodel. He had his visions of the future, too, and I grew tired of telling them their visions didn’t reconcile. They think next year may be the year. I hope for the baby’s sake.
Copyright © April 24, 2007
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Very Short Novels 
Thank you so much, anhinga, but I wouldn't want to try it without the other 199. —David
Why, thank you, brother. It's wonderful to see you here. :) —David
All you need is 100 words to make an emotional impact. Touching.
Brilliant, brother. Just simply brilliant.
This Very Short Novel has a strong resemblance to Simple Lessons of War from almost 20 years ago, but is…