I needn’t have worried about the chemistry. It is magic between us.
When we came home from our first date (I took her to the library, since she’s a bookworm), we immediately tried to conceive. Just to be sure, we tried again. And then for luck, a third time.
As I drifted off to sleep, saturated with chemistry of love, I thought we should just scrap the project, move off to the desert and find an oasis, and live there drunk on love for the rest of our days. Harrington D’Arcy and Sally Bennet, castaways for love.
The next morning, Sally greeted me with the news that our efforts (or should I say, our joys) were successful: we were going to have a baby.
We agreed to call him Wentworth.
“But what if she’s a girl?” Sally asked.
I didn’t know what to say. It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that the Wonder Child would be anything but a boy.
“If, by some chance, this turns out to be a girl, let’s name her Elizabeth, after my great, great, great, great grandmother.”
“Oh, no,” said Sally. “I had a great, great, great, great aunt named Lizzie, and the family tales hold that she was a real handful. Let’s call her Emma.”
And so it seems that our project has begun.