I would let him wife me up, they say.

At the back of the room before class, on the way to the club after midnight, at the grocery store with a box of chocolate and tampons. When he catches you staring at his dark russet eyes, the corners of his mouth turn up because he knows what he does to beating hearts. Hi, they giggle shyly through hair deserving to swept back behind the ear by his calloused hands. His lips part to utter a rehearsed staccato melody. They want him even more.

Why am I still single? They ask, panting as he sings a tune you don’t know. To get acquainted with the unfamiliar is easy, though. Like Egyptian cotton sheets, they say. Like fine aged wine and crimson rose petals.

He could be in a Hollywood movie, a Cosmopolitan magazine, a Nicholas Sparks book, they say. At the swimming pool, they casually ask him to apply sunblock on the small of their back. A slender blonde girl with tall legs and two perfect melons at the checkout counter asks, how much?

You hum his name, rolling each syllable over in your mouth with your tongue. His song is not yours, but ask for his number, they say.

As if it’s easy to change the tempo of a classic like Mozart, or Beethoven. You smile and shrug; you don’t mention the last time you tuned the radio and settled for a fuzzy station. Nor do you mention how you’ll never hear the sound of a baby’s heart beating it’s soft drum inside of your womb. Maybe that is why you are scared, or independent, depending on the conversation. There will never be a pink plus sign tossed into the waste bin because you can't sing a regenerative tune. Yet, you’re still hopeful so you hum his name anyway.

I would let him wife me up. We would have beautiful babies together, they say.