just_muse_me || 1.6.4. Persuasion
1.6.4. Persuasion
“Why don’t you want to know?”
“Because I just don’t.”
“What sort of answer is that?”
“My answer.”
“I want to know if I’m having a niece or nephew.”
“Well I don’t and I’m the one who’s going to be pushing it out of my vagina, so stop being a pain in my arse.”
“I want to know whether to buy pink or blue.”
“Pink for a boy, no doubt.”
“Naturally.”
“You aren’t dressing my son in pink, Maximus.”
“You’re having a son?!”
“No, fuck it. I don’t know what the sprog is. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t have eight legs.”
“What? You’re giving birth to an arachnid now?”
“Who fucking knows with Mark Campbell blood.”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”
“You’ll get wrinkles if you beg like that.”
“That wasn’t begging. That was polite and pointed persuasion.”
“Then it didn’t fucking work.”
“You’re an evil sister.”
“Must you be a brat when I’m lying here on a cold exam table with nothing on but a pukey lavender floral gown?”
“I don’t get why you don’t want to know what your kid is.”
“I want to be surprised.”
“Bullshit. You’re scared, Al.”
“Scared of what?”
“If the kid has a sex, that you might start liking it.”
“What a load of crap.”
“Then let the ultrasound chick tell me.”
“No.”
“It’s not like you not to want to know all the tiny little details so you can be prepared. And you call yourself a scientist.”
“I’m a forensic scientist, not a fucking sprog analyst. That’s what I’m paying this place for. Unless I’m going to take the sprog’s fingerprints, get off my back.”
“Al…”
“No.”
Words | 272
“Why don’t you want to know?”
“Because I just don’t.”
“What sort of answer is that?”
“My answer.”
“I want to know if I’m having a niece or nephew.”
“Well I don’t and I’m the one who’s going to be pushing it out of my vagina, so stop being a pain in my arse.”
“I want to know whether to buy pink or blue.”
“Pink for a boy, no doubt.”
“Naturally.”
“You aren’t dressing my son in pink, Maximus.”
“You’re having a son?!”
“No, fuck it. I don’t know what the sprog is. I’m here to make sure it doesn’t have eight legs.”
“What? You’re giving birth to an arachnid now?”
“Who fucking knows with Mark Campbell blood.”
“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease.”
“You’ll get wrinkles if you beg like that.”
“That wasn’t begging. That was polite and pointed persuasion.”
“Then it didn’t fucking work.”
“You’re an evil sister.”
“Must you be a brat when I’m lying here on a cold exam table with nothing on but a pukey lavender floral gown?”
“I don’t get why you don’t want to know what your kid is.”
“I want to be surprised.”
“Bullshit. You’re scared, Al.”
“Scared of what?”
“If the kid has a sex, that you might start liking it.”
“What a load of crap.”
“Then let the ultrasound chick tell me.”
“No.”
“It’s not like you not to want to know all the tiny little details so you can be prepared. And you call yourself a scientist.”
“I’m a forensic scientist, not a fucking sprog analyst. That’s what I’m paying this place for. Unless I’m going to take the sprog’s fingerprints, get off my back.”
“Al…”
“No.”
Words | 272