Chapter 6 Reproductive Aging
REPRODUCTIVE AGING
*Samantha*
Two hours after the first alcoholic beverages went down, the world had softened around the edges, the way it does after not enough sleep.
Kendra’s boyfriend, whose name I kept forgetting and replacing with “Keith” because I was convinced he looked like a Keith, had arrived about an hour ago with his work friends, and they brought reinforcements in the form of new energy and conversation.
I was more than tipsy, past the humming, happy phase and floating on that upper stratosphere where time is an accordion and entire conversations disappear into the memory foam of your brain before they even finish.
I knew I was beyond tipsy because every time I blinked, the restaurant shifted a few centimeters to the left.
I also knew I was past tipsy because I’d allowed myself to slouch sideways and press my temple against Andreas’s shoulder.
His arm was around me, holding me to him.
His other hand had laced with mine and was resting on my lap.
I cradled our joined fingers with my free hand and caressed the bones of his like I was sculpting them.
Kendra and Nakita had long since abandoned our table in favor of the big round one, and Keith and his army of software developer clones (I think one of them was literally named Clive) filled in the remaining seats.
Diya, ever the MVP of social events, was alternating between dispensing rapid-fire medical trivia (“Yes, you can die from eating too many carrots, but only if you’re a rabbit”) and aggressively setting up rounds of shots.
Andreas, to my enduring amazement, took it all in stride.
He seemed utterly unbothered by the chaos, never once glancing at the time, or at his phone, or at the door.
Instead, he fielded questions, laughed at jokes, and every once in a while, when the noise level dipped, he’d turn to me and whisper some observation that made me want to go home with him and never come back out.
But that would never happen, because we weren’t a real couple even though we played one on TV.
Also, he smelled unfairly good tonight. A new cologne, something expensive and alive, cedar and citrus.
His hand in mine felt solid and generous and warm.
I found myself repeatedly stroking his knuckles with my thumb, fascinated by the structure of them.
Part of my brain was narrating a National Geographic episode: “Observe, the majestic male, perfectly evolved for the manipulation of chess pieces and, apparently, the hearts of emotionally unavailable women.”
I tried to listen to the conversations at the table, but my attention kept circling back to the reality of my body, of how good it felt to be leaning against his chest and torso, and how I didn’t want to escape my own skin. I was so at home in this moment, I would’ve signed a lease.
The group dynamic was better than I could have hoped.
My friends, for all their varied credentials, were softies at heart and clearly delighted to have Andreas among them.
Every time Nakita made a joke, he’d tilt his head and smile, the ghost of a dimple appearing at the edge of his mouth.
When Diya, emboldened by her third vodka soda, challenged him to a game of speed chess using only soy sauce bottles and ketchup packets as pieces, he demurred with gentle grace.
Kendra, ever the ringleader, decided Andreas should be in charge of the music for the table, which led to him requesting (with dry, deadpan conviction) the entirety of ABBA Gold as the only acceptable playlist for the rest of the night.
It was, by any metric, a flawless integration. Too bad it wasn’t real.
And yet, through the haze of alcohol and noise, I could not stop thinking about the way his hand fit in mine. About how easy it would be to tip my face up and kiss him in front of all these people, and how absolutely zero percent of my pickled brain thought it would be a bad idea.
And, on that note, why was sober me so resistant to the idea of a real relationship?
Why did every instinct in my sober body scream at me to run when all I wanted to do right now was stay, and maybe even—God forbid—let myself love someone for more than three consecutive business days?
These were the kinds of philosophical queries you should not, under any circumstances, attempt to answer while three whiskeys deep and riding a contact high from your childhood turned adult crush.
And yet, my brain would not stop circling the drain.
I kept thinking: If I don’t tell him how I feel, if I don’t propose right here at this table to make it all real, then what the fuck am I even doing?
But then another voice, the one that was allegedly in charge, reminded me that I was drunk, that nothing I said tonight would survive the morning, and that this was precisely the kind of disaster my psychiatrist had warned me about.
Emotional decisions under the influence of dopamine and alcohol were not, generally, sound or strategic.
So, I decided to wait. I would wait until tomorrow, or at least until I sobered up, to address the growing suspicion that I wanted, more than anything, to make this the last first date of my life.
At one point, Diya and Andreas got deep into conversation, just the two of them, and their voices rose above the clamor, a duet of quick, bright syllables and the occasional cross talk about chess and gene sequencing and the merits of kimchi.
It was only when Diya leaned forward, her eyes lit with what seemed to be wild curiosity, that I tuned in fully.
“Half the chess grand masters in India come from Tamil Nadu. My uncle says it’s the water, or the weather, or maybe the local Wi-Fi,” Diya said, gesticulating with her dessert spoon.
Andreas nodded with a small, admiring smile.
“Tamil Nadu is beautiful. I have visited many times for tournaments in Chennai. They study and make it their life, and they are very good at identifying and fostering talent. Your uncle is incorrect, however. It is not something in the water. But perhaps it is the food?” His tone had turned teasing.
“The food is what really made an impression on me.”
Diya grinned. “I’ll have to take you to my aunt’s next time she’s in town. She makes a dosa that’ll ruin you for life.” Then, abruptly, her phone buzzed on the table. She checked it and her face changed; she excused herself with a quick apology, and slipped away to take the call.
With her gone, the table’s conversation splintered into smaller groups, and I became aware that I was still, possibly for hours now, petting the back of Andreas’s hand in my lap like it was a beloved pet.
I chanced a glance at his face. He watched the room with a serene detachment that made me wonder what was going on behind those eyes.
Was he bored? Was he counting down the seconds until he could escape?
Or was he as deliriously content as I was, just sitting here, being present, not needing to fill the air with words?
I couldn’t tell. I’d never been able to read him well. But I wanted to. So, I squeezed his hand.
He looked down at me, and when our eyes met, he smiled in that slow, unreadable way. Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead that made my heart spike with heat. It wasn’t hurried, but not lazy, either. It was so out of nowhere, so gentle, that it fried my brain for a moment.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice pitched for me and me alone.
I inhaled a shaky breath, registered the smell of him, and exhaled. “A little drunk.”
He made a noise low in his throat, almost a laugh. “You had three whiskeys and a glass of wine.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I slouched even further, my cheek pressing into his sweater. “Don’t let me drink anymore, please. I will do things I’ll regret.”
His arm tightened around my shoulders, just enough to let me know he’d heard. Then he kissed the top of my head again, sending my heart to my throat, and said, “Okay.”
My eyes fluttered closed. I could’ve slept there, in the restaurant, if not for the crescendoing volume of the conversations around us and the small, persistent voice inside my head reminding me I needed to go to Kaitlyn’s tomorrow, and that the next time I woke up, it would be Thanksgiving.
I felt the weight of his hand shift in mine, and then, slowly, he lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed the back of my hand. A simple, old-fashioned gesture, but when his mouth touched my skin, it sent a supernova up my arm and straight to my heart.
Opening my eyes, our gazes met again. This time he held my eyes, not letting me go even when my face went hot.
“Do you want to leave?” he asked, so quiet I almost missed it. “It is getting late, and we have your friends’ Thanksgiving tomorrow.”
I thought about it. I weighed the prospect of leaving this perfect, timeless, alcohol-glazed moment against the inevitability of waking up tomorrow. But if life had taught me one lesson, it was that all good things always, always, always came to an end.
“I think we should,” I said, but didn’t move to stand.
He nodded, then let go of my hand just long enough to help me up.
He was so gentle, it felt like being picked up by a breeze.
He pulled my coat from the back of my chair, helped me slide my hands through the armholes, and took a moment to button it for me while I stared at his mouth.
His movements were slow and precise, almost ceremonial.
Andreas offered his arm, and I took it, which made everyone at the table pause and turn in our direction.
Diya, who’d returned at some point and was now grinning, caught my eye and gave me a double thumbs-up.
Kendra shouted, “Don’t be a stranger!” and Nakita blew me a kiss.
Or maybe she blew Andreas a kiss. Mostly probably, it was for both of us.