"Before dawn, Tristan carefully slid from under the quilt, trying not to wake his beloved Isolde. He felt a bit nauseous, his stomach bloated as though he had eaten something disagreeable, which was impossible since he had taken Isolde to her favorite restaurant the previous night, and she had generously let him pay. The food was impeccable, the evening perfect, the hours of lovemaking compressed to mere minutes in his memory, and the climax of their passion lost in a series of orgasms.
With his hand over his mouth, he rushed toward the bathroom. The sensor-operated door silently opened and closed behind him, not disturbing the moments of realization. Kneeling over the toilet he had just reached, he began to retch silently.
"Morning sickness," a term he recalled from a class on sexuality long ago, flashed through his mind. He turned around, sat on the cooled seat, and reached between his legs. He waited for the post-coital cleansing ejaculation, but it didn’t come. Despite the nausea, he tried to induce ejaculation through routine motions, but instead of the expected release, a warmth spread from his abdomen, flushing his face. The heat returned to the area around his navel, and he felt the pulsing of veins in the pouch that had been a privilege of men for about a century.
The formal objectivity of his school education mixed with the physical and emotional chaos of reality, and jumping up from the toilet, he stared into the mirror above the sink. His bearded face was distorted by a mix of anger, disappointment, realization, and alarm. Through the mirror, he saw the door open.
Isolde entered the bathroom, still half-asleep, stood in front of the toilet, and began to urinate. Her eyes widened as the lingering acidic smell cut through the air. A flash of joy crossed her face.
He watched all this in the mirror, gripping the sink because he was shaking. He managed to utter just three accusing word.
"You deceived me."
Isolde gently wrapped her arms around him and kissed his neck.
"Go back to bed; I'll bring you tea."
Her touch was cool, her kiss hot, and the warmth in her words palpable.
"You promised to wait until I was 21," he said, shaking with anger and desire.
Isolde looked into the mirror beside him, their faces so close on its silver surface. In the icy LED light of the bathroom, her face seemed older because of its grim expression.
"The council designated a father for me. He was ideal in every way, but my heart wanted something else. And I didn't deceive you; my body deceived both of us. The ovulation occurred three days earlier and somewhat hidden. Only the intensity of the orgasm made me realize that the donation had taken place. And I watched you in awe because until now, I had only seen the series of orgasms accompanying fertilization in men on educational videos. You are beautiful even now. If only we could switch places!"
The open expression of such a heretical thought eased his anger somewhat.
"In all of nature, only human males carry the embryo. It’s a divine miracle."
"That's true, and yet you’re not happy about it."
Isolde stepped into the bathtub and turned on the shower. With a minimal amount of cleansing cream, she finished showering in three minutes, precisely knowing and not exceeding her water quota by even a deciliter.
Following the trail of water droplets sliding off her breasts and hips, his gaze drifted over her generative rod, which had provided such pleasure in her cloaca the night before. A few inches’ opening between her legs, behind which lay an anatomical impossibility, or a miracle. The natural phenomenon a century ago, the gift of the pink night, or according to doomsday sects, its curse, its punishment. Men had become the child bearers, while women continued to nourish and tenderly care for the shared treasure.
Women became leaders because childbirth weakened men, not physically, but emotionally. And he felt it, the surge of hormones making him increasingly depend on Isolde’s tender attention. He thought about the school lessons, how his sperm-fertilized her egg would implant itself into the blood vessel-rich wall of his baby-carrying sac. He knew the process and yet did not feel ready.
"You promised to wait until I finished university. As a graduate man, it would be different."
Steam rose Isolde’s body, absorbed by the extractor to be recycled back into the house's water system. She stepped out of the tub and took underwear and a work overalls from the wardrobe. While dressing, she reflected, allowing herself time to see more clearly. She ruffled her closely cropped hair as if to shake off the disturbing thoughts. In the mirror, she smiled without joy.
"The council and biology put undeniable facts before us. I am twenty-five, at the optimum of my physical maturity, when the laws also demand a woman to become a mother. Would I have accepted the proposed father, and allowed you to leave?"
She turned to face Tristan directly, her words firm.
"Yes! In two years later, I could have made me the second father in your life!"
Isolde met his gaze steadfastly, not flinching.
"But only one can bear my name, only our shared children would be named after us. The rest would belong to the state. I love you, I desire you, and you know well I will be a great mother. I have gifted you this; accept it, and be the first and only husband to me!"
His anger dissipated.
"You just proposed to me."
"I did more than that. I offered you social ascension, that as the father of my children, you could live at the peak. Because I love you. I know it's old-fashioned to refer to feelings, but my mother was good to me and warned not to reproduce out of interest."
"You're not even considering me! I told you about my plans!"
"All male fantasies. With your Class A physical and Class C intellectual attributes, it would be a miracle if you could finish the three-year program. I passed the five-year program’s final exam; I bring up topics from it, and you don’t understand most of the theories!"
"Believe me, I appreciate that you don’t embarrass me with your diploma, but it’s still infuriating that you doubt me and make decisions for me. Fifty years of gender equality. I have the right to live my own life and study, to start a business! You can't force me into fatherhood."
"Imagine then, in five years, at thirty, I take you as my second father. My egg cells will mostly be damaged then. It will be a series of trials in Petri dishes, and only genetically sound zygotes will be implanted into you. That would be a relationship of convenience, where you would exploit me based on our past and feelings! Tell me, who seduced whom? Who snuck onto the elite floor to leave his internship application, specifically highlighting that he was his one of the trainers by my sister’s first husband. It worked. I became curious about you. And you, with sports, our shared hobby, you swept me off my feet. You have a beautiful body, and I admit, you are quite clever in certain areas. So, be smart and reconsider what you are risking. At thirty, I will reject you. I will be faithful to only one man, and if you are not willing to be that one, leave. But the life we conceived is already growing inside you. All the external signs are there. And you know the law, in the case of two Class A bodies, the fertilized egg immediately implies marriage. Yes, I have married you."
"I have 72 hours to terminate it. I'll use the legal loophole."
"Why are you rejecting this?! I offered you half my life! As the father of our children, you would have more opportunities than with your studies and any other foolish plan!"
"That's why, because you don't believe in me. I am a man, for heaven's sake! I'm as capable as any woman! And I will not become a father prematurely. No matter how much I love you. First, I yearn for my own business, however small it may be compared to your nearly directorial position."
"Abortion is dangerous. It could ruin your baby-carrying sac!"
"If done in the first 24 hours, the surgical risk is only 1-2%. So, you take me to the council in the city! If you truly love me, you won’t stand in my way."
Isolde straightened up and stared into space above his forehead, pondering, weighing her options. She spoke deliberately and coolly.
"It’s your right to make your own decision. I can’t force you. Alright, stand before the council and apply for the abortion! I’m taking a day off today. Let’s give ourselves a chance. And if the zygote's removal happened, I’ll leave you and never seek you out again! Is that good for you?! Manly enough?"
With a parched throat but a defiant look, he said:
"Yes."
Isolde smiled.
"Then you might as well get dressed. And let’s eat first, because it’s going to be a tough day. They don’t just give abortion permits to two Class A parents."
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