Blood

Roger Noons 

a cuppa soup – tomato

The young technician who takes my blood is pregnant.

    ‘Six weeks time,’ she tells me, ‘A girl.’

    ‘I hope all goes well,’ I say, my eyes tightly shut and head turned away until she tells me to relax my fist. I cannot bring myself to look at the tubes of blood as she checks my date of birth and writes my name on the labels.

    What a 73 year old baby, I think, as I walk from cubicle number 4, fastening the cuff of my shirt. I wonder how it feels to give birth as I walk along the corridor.