Second Chance

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They—the ubiquitous they—say I that when you’re pregnant, you’re supposed to glow. I picture myself, Gillian Blessing, overweight, tortoise-shell glasses, the blue-tinged skin of a true redhead, glowing like a UFO as I deliver the genius fruit of the womb.

So much for fantasy. Oh, the physical description is right on, but I’m the perfect opposite of glowing, and barring random mutations, the seed of Joel Slotkin will produce considerably short of genius.

Of course it’s my fault. I’d pried myself away from science fiction for a while, on account of the fact that I’d just turned seventeen and could not find any Honest-to-God sexy romantic heroes in the whole genre, and believe me, I’d looked. To me, hard SF does not mean rivets.

Anyway, I ended up reading the Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini (fabulous), writing wretched poetry (not fabulous), and hanging out at Paris Blue’s Madderroot Teahouse.

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