Fiction
Lamp Geniesby Reed Farrel Coleman
The rubber fetus I’d retrieved from Dr. Ellington’s lawn was on the floor of the Crown Vic’s backseat. Its eyes were shut. I imagined them to be blue. Of course there were no eyes under the flesh-colored rubber lids. I’m not sure why it mattered. Maybe it was that Jillian had terminated a pregnancy before we were married because, as she finally confessed to me on the day she left to go west to die alone or in the arms of another man, “I just wasn’t sure about you back then, Ish. I just wasn’t sure.” Maybe it was that she had twice miscarried and we were destined to perish childless. Since Red Sunday, both Jillian and I celebrated that fate. Maybes? There were a thousand, a million, a million plus one. None of them mattered. None of them explained
