Thirties

 by Hallie Johnston

Early in his. Late in mine.

“How do you feel about kids?” he asks via text a week after meeting on a dating app, three days after meeting once in person where we both pretended the pizza was good. I asked him questions about his job, family/friends, growing up in Alabama, likes/dislikes, and he asked me my own questions and little else.

But at the end of the date, barely audible over hot bugs thrumming in nearby weeds, trees, grass, he said he had a nice time, that we should do it again. “Sure,” I said, “great,” letting the maracas of male cicadas walk me to my car. I decided he must need time to come out of his shell. Also in mind was his profile that said “political beliefs: liberal,” a rare find in my Southern dating-app experience. Even rarer, he’s a therapist, and while his quiet was silent it was also calm, reminding me of my own therapist who tries to help with my OCD and self-worth.

“How do you feel about kids?”

Not the words of a shy guy barely wanting to know my favorite movie, so I’m thrown. Then I think with the slice of brain raised by nineties rom-coms and feel encouraged—only a few days and he’s opening up.

But how do I answer this question alone on my sofa with my phone. Without faces and gestures and eyes meeting as I explain how I always imagined having a family of my own by now. That I was “little Mommy” to my sister the day she was born and I was five. That my first favorite toy was Baby Alive, and I delighted in mixing those powder packets at my play kitchen, spoon feeding her, and changing her wet-mess diaper. That one Christmas I asked for a lifelike baby doll—same size and weight, around eight pounds. She was heavy as hell and I lugged her around and loved and named her and still think about names I’ll name my one-day children.

How do I just shoot back a text like I’m choosing a favorite color or mountains vs beach (blue and mountains; he didn’t ask). So I tell a shorter truth: “I’m open!” I say it should be a joint decision between my partner and me. That at this point in my life I’m unsure about doing it alone, but if I end up alone forever—“lol”—then hopefully I’ll figure out how to make it happen when I’m ready. I hit send. I wait.

And wait. Twenty-four hours. Maybe he’s ghosted. Then a message, a few more. The first responds to earlier talk about basketball. The next to a question about music. Finally, kids: he definitely wants them. I feel relieved. Then he sends something like: “Listen, I don’t want to waste your time.” This sentiment along with “not interested in pursuing something romantic.”

Thrown again.

“Oh. Ok,” I text back, stunned.

Minutes pass and my head starts to thump. A headache of so many words. I double-text, tell him asking about kids before ending it was misleading. That I think most would feel misled.

Then his too-quick response to my no-response-needed-unless-an-apology message. Phrases like “I get that” but “at your age,” “someone your age,” and “reality of the situation.”

Outrage. Rage. I feel where my soul was is just a textbook sketch of female anatomy. I have to go. Anywhere. I decide to walk neighborhood sidewalks. Long, lumbering strides alongside bits and pieces of the world—gas-flame porchlights and red doors, driveway bicycles, sidewalk-chalk, green and gardenia and a little bit of pot. I stop by the neighborhood park of trees and creek. I walk lap after lap, circling, trying to walk it off.

And when I feel I finally have, tired and sweaty, I take a final loop to catch my breath—slow, feet crunching gravel, heels digging in. I round the curve, and as I’m about to leave, I see her. Her feathered back. Her talon feet. A barred owl. She sits low in a maple, still and staring. I watch for a while. She swivels her head every so often front to back. These moments of eyes meeting, hers and mine: breathtaking. And somehow, I’m breathing deeper and rhythmic and in time with my body. I feel we feel each other. I feel she’s holding me. Before I go, I mouth the words “beautiful” and “thank you,” speaking in shapes like constellations.

Hallie Johnston holds an MFA in creative writing from the University of Miami. Her work has appeared in The Louisville Review, The Citron Review, and The Boiler.