Jude Potts
For sale, one womb, unused. Buyer collects.
A woman in a green kaftan wants to use my womb for an Etsy craft project. A light-fitting. It will “cast a diffuse pink glow and throw fascinating shadows”. She’s brought a Tupperware box. I place my womb inside, a soft click locks away unfulfilled dreams of unheld children.
She checks that the womb’s empty.
‘Never used,’ I remind her.
You always demurred and deferred decisions about kids, until it was too late. You seemed relieved about my early menopause. Joked about saving money on condoms. You saved money on condoms with your new girlfriend too. I hear she’s six months pregnant. My womb ached at the news.
The Etsy lady usually uses fire extinguishers, car parts, old roller boots to make her lamps. This will be her first womb.
‘Rare to find one in such pristine shape.’ she remarks, explaining how she’ll replace the fallopian tubes with LEDs.
I use the money to fix the kitchen ceiling you were always promising to get sorted, but never did.
Next, I sell an ovary. No use without the womb. I market it as an artistic ‘talking point’ sculpture. I show it carefully backlit, on a dark wood shelf, white wall behind. It gets snapped up by an interiors shop in Chichester. I sell the second, regretting I didn’t sell them as a pair. More valuable that way, like vases, bookend, or plant pots. And people.
Your new girlfriend still needs her ovaries, already talking about baby number two, a brother, a sister, to make sure your child doesn’t grow up alone. No one thrives when they’re lonely. I spend the ovary money on a cat. I name him Egg. He spends most of his time outdoors. Like he can smell need on me and can’t bear the stench.
I think about the shit-eating grin you gave every time my fingers beat a twitching tattoo of pleasure on the mattress, and I can’t sleep. My heart heaves. I want a new mattress. I think about selling the heart I don’t want anymore because it hurts. I toy with the idea of renting it out. The price of property is sky-high; I’m sure it would do as a bedsit. I empty it ready for rental, throwing out the ache from hearing you’re engaged. I send a text filled with congratulations I almost mean. I tell you I’m having a clear out, ask if there’s anything here you still want. You say - nothing.
The insurance needs paying, I decide I’ll lease part of my brain. I clear out memories I can’t use anymore. Your hand holding mine as we strolled cobbled streets one summer’s afternoon. Ice cream melting in my spare hand. Your tongue as you lifted my hand to your mouth, following the trail of vanilla down my wrist. The reassuring warmth and heft of you curled around my body one winter’s night, the wind rattling the tiles on the roof, your gentle kiss on my shoulder as I twitched awake, your breath tingling on my neck as you ssshed me back to sleep.
A tech-bro rents the space. He uses it to store defunct cryptocurrency, old social media sites and other techno junk he really should just throw away. He swears some of his NFTS will be collectors’ items. He pays over the odds and I replace the mattress with leftover money. I hear him rummaging sometimes. I find it comforting. Like the sound of neighbours chatting as they cook together like we used to; drinking wine and sharing each other’s days.
I wonder again about selling or leasing my heart. The house, once our home, costs too much on one income. In the end, I hang onto the heart and sell the house, easier without the memories that gave it meaning.
I move into an apartment. Egg befriends a neighbour’s tabby. The neighbour invites me round. We talk cats, tech bros and lost love as he chops carrots and we drink wine.
Egg and the tabby strut past the window with knowing looks on their furry faces. They stop and sniff at the open window, Egg slips in and winds himself around my legs. I don’t stink of loneliness that offends him tonight.
A warm twinge in my chest. I’m glad I kept the heart.
Jude Potts is a full-time carer and sometime writer with work in WestWord and Free Flash Fiction, plus forthcoming work in Pure Slush’s Loss Anthology and Urban Pigs’ Hunger Anthology.
