I know Connor has a headache, but I also know that he won’t let me down. He’s good that way. That’s part of what’s made our increasingly unbalanced marriage last as long as it has. Sure, I thought he’d be something more than a waiter. I didn’t marry him for his money, but I had hoped that he’d find a path to a better job. I tried to help. I even petitioned the court to see if there was anything we could do about that felony conviction in California. He was young and stupid at the time. But not that young. And I knew the law well enough: a felony isn’t expunged because someone’s wife wants it to be.

I’m a little groggy. The drive with a drunken husband got into my head, and I took an Ambien—maybe two—before I put Connor to bed and made up the sectional for the night. Even so, I need to get things done. I’m thirty-nine, and I’m running out of time. I did what so many women in my generation did: I waited. I wanted to get everything settled in my life, my career, before embarking on motherhood. That men never deal with this is beyond unfair. Biology isn’t fair. Fertility isn’t fair. There’s a man in my office pushing sixty with a young wife and a two-year-old. I want to be happy for him. He’s a nice guy. It’s hard to be genuinely enthusiastic if you can never have what’s in front of you—when it comes so easily to others.

The bulge beneath my husband’s boxers grows. I look at it approvingly. More than that: like I can’t believe my eyes. Connor likes that. All men do. Like it’s some miracle. I don’t see it that way. I see it as a soldier standing to attention, ready to plant his flag for his country.

The sad truth is, our lovemaking has become a process, purposeful. An activity that doesn’t revolve around intimacy but instead calculation. We have sex because I want a baby. There is a need inside of me that cannot be denied or set on the back burner for a moment longer.

Damn biology.

I’m naked in the bed, and Connor comes for me. He’s fully erect. That’s one of his best qualities. My husband’s penis is as quick to attention as an eighteen-year-old’s. I spread my legs and apply Pre-Seed, a sperm-friendly lubricant. There’s no foreplay to get me wet, and really, I’m a little beyond that right at the moment. Connor lubes his dick too. He’s smiling at me, excited. He is eighteen at times. I put my legs up high. I want him inside me as far as he can go. I want those swimmers to get where they need to go. I want to feel that hot spurt against my cervix. And then it’s on. Connor thrusts, and I moan. It feels good. I like sex. Really I do. I want to be totally into it, yet I can’t quite get there. I keep thinking over and over between his thrusts: Will this be the time? Will something finally happen? Will we make a baby?