Word count: 901
Summary: In a world where women are nearly non-existent, and men, desiring marriage mates, must resort to the dead, “wife-shopping” would probably become a very popular custom. (Weird sci-fi futuristic drabble. Oneshot.)

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Ballerina Bones

Silas wanted a wife. Walking down the cold, strange smelling hall, he passed quickly by the big black room numbers, which, in his distraction, looked like nothing more than ugly, curling symbols. He remembered, though long ago it had been, how women had once been numerous, so much so that they were taken for granted. He recalled his mother, a small, beautiful dark-haired woman, smiling cheerfully as she chatted with her many friends. But soon after Silas had left home, a teenager, ready to live his own life...all the women started to disappear.

It was so gradual that no one noticed it at first. For some reason baffling to scientists, the statistics of girls being born was decreasing, and not long afterwards, all the living women died off, leaving only one or two females, so terrified by the men banging on their doors to "refill the population" that they resorted to being nuns, even if they didn't believe in god in the first place. A selfish action, but one some took nevertheless.

Now Silas was going to get himself a wife. He had seen the commercial and initially, the idea had disgusted him to no end, but things had changed, and if he didn't buy one now, who knew how many would be left? Women were useful things, and hopefully, over time, her companionship would rid him of that stinging loneliness. A few girls might be born, even. Unlike many other men in his situation, he wasn't interested in becoming gay. Ignoring the slight lurching of his gut at the idea, the tall, heavily built man continued forwards, determined to get himself a skinny one, at the very least.

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“…Well, judging by the size of her bones, she was quite active. See here? The grooves? They were left by muscles on her arms.” The doctor looked up at the grim, contemplative man. Clearing his throat, he continued on unfazed, used to such painful lack of responses in his customers. “She’s also right-handed, as you can see.” Glancing up at the tall, brooding man again, he said, “Though I don’t know if that kind of thing matters to you. You’re not superstitious, are you?”

Finally forced to answer, the man shook his head, hands still clasped firmly behind his back. Running his sharp, piercing gaze over the pictures, he opened his mouth, deep voice murmuring a question.

“Is she thin?”

Suddenly taken aback by the rather abrupt, if common, inquiry, the doctor cocked his head and placed a hand on the back of his neck, scratching the few, coarse strands of blond hair there. Frowning, he walked over to a shiny black table, and picked up a thin x-ray sheet, scrutinizing it carefully. After a few moments, he headed to his computer, typed in something quickly, and then turned the monitor, with some difficulty, towards the large man.

“Here,” he said, absently picking up random sheets of paper and stacking them sloppily on the other side of his desk. He moved the mouse, blinking at the screen, then looked back up at the other man. “See this.”

Moving in a slow, almost reluctant fashion, the other man strode heavily towards the much smaller, but older man, and stared deep into the flickering screen. For a time, he did nothing, but after another long pause; he straightened, shooting a shadowed glance at the doctor’s nametag. “Dr. Somers.” He stared thoughtfully for a moment, then raised his eyes slowly to meet Dr. Somers’s somehow annoyingly expectant gaze.

“Tell me more.”

“Well…” Dr. Somers ran long, thin fingers through his thinning hair, slightly irritated at how demanding and slow this one was. Resisting the urge to say that his hours were over, he patiently looked once more at the computer screen, moving the mouse and clicking here and there. Sifting through a pile of x-rays on his desk, he finally pulled out three more, ignoring the pounding in his head and wondering, not for the first time, why all the women looked so damn similar. Examining the print of her feet, his eyes traveled down to her toes, and suddenly it clicked. Smiling broadly, he turned to his customer. “Silas, I think his name is,” thought Dr. Somers, hoping he was right.

Holding up the flimsy black sheet as if having found a jackpot, he faced Silas, trying to look as pleasant as possible. “She was a ballerina,” he explained, pointing to her feet. “Her digits are slightly stunted, not by much, but enough to indicate she probably danced on pointed shoes for a long time.” When the other man didn’t respond, and only seemed to look even more skeptical, he forced his smile wider, and tried to convey a feeling of success. “She would have been thin, then,” Dr. Somers summarized patiently.

As if a cloud of malice had been lifted from Silas’s head, his expression softened. Nodding his head in that slow, deliberate way of his, he pulled out a large, leather wallet, a clear sign that he was ready.

All business now, Dr. Somers hurried toward his desk, the papers necessary for payment already laid out on the shiny ebony wood. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, there was a sharp and sudden click, and then the sound of scribbling filled the silence of the room.

“…you’ll probably receive her in about a week. Would you like delivery, or do….”

Revised 4/23/05