Nobody wants to be alone forever.

No matter what some people might say, no matter how much a person might hate being with someone or how hard they might find it to tolerate someone or something-eventually-they are going to want that inseparable bond that connects one soul with another.

At least that's what I think.

However-and this is that part that usually confuses people- when somebody finally decides not to be alone for the rest of eternity it does not always have to be a husband or a wife that they should choose to live with. Some seek that relationship, yes, yet some may stay content with the tender and intriguing love of a pet or an office plant. Others may look for a simple friendship between themselves and another or simply reconnect with their long lost family that they have decided years ago never to speak to again. To some, the higher calling of God himself is what they seek or instead what has found them.

I just want a kid.

And, no, before you go off assuming that I am some middle aged fatty who has decided that it is way too late in life to start on a relationship and/or am too lazy to work on a friendship/family connection—I'm not. Assuming just makes and ass out of you and me, you know.

I am a young, prosperous human being that just so happens to want a child in perhaps the most unorthodox of ways.

So perhaps that is why I am standing here in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at the ad I had placed in the newspaper.

It's not a long newspaper ad. It was short, sweet and to the point. Not because I'm cheap but simply because there isn't much that can be said about the topic.

'20 year old woman looking for sperm donation from successful man.

No genetic illnesses.

May not be older than 30.

Must have green eyes.

Must be above six ft. tall.

IQ of 115 or above preferred.

Please call Tavia Lainie at (***) ***-**** if interested.'

There. I told you it was to the point. Yes, it's odd. Yes, it's farfetched. Yes, that is my real name. And-finally- no, it is not illegal.

I looked it up.

As it turns out it's only illegal if you don't have a legal form and a very expensive doctors' note. I just so happen to be in possession of both.

I walk from the newspaper bay and clutch the newspaper in my right hand as I make my way down to work. I work in a florists shop down the block from my flat that is jam packed with wonderful people that I want absolutely nothing to do with.

Why? Easy enough.

They're not mine.

I can't go to one of them and tell them what's bothering me. They can't go up to me and do the same. None of us can hold each other in the others' arms and hold them until their problems fade away into oblivion. Frankly, that would be up there on the top of my list of 'Things Never to do with a Co-Worker'. That list is very important. It saves you from awkward things happening in the workplace.

I make my way into the tiny little shop on the corner of the block, ringing the door on the bell on my way in. Not many heads turn because, of course, we are not yet open. We open at seven AM. What time is it now? 6:30.

I wake up at 5:30 in the morning in order to be half an hour early to work for no reason other than to start the shop off right and make sure everything is in order.

Pathetic, aren't I?

I think so.

"Mornin', Fi." Greet two of my co-workers as I walk over to the front desk and fold my newspaper into my large purse which I then stow away into my cubby in the back room. I don't want anyone to know that I want to be a mother.

"Morning, Danny. Morning, Jane. Are the new shipments from California in yet?"

And so I start my usual day at work.

((P.O.V Switch))

He threw down his newspaper with a grunt and slumped down on the couch behind him with tired, aching bones. The man had been working for 36 hours straight and it was beginning to drag on his bones and muscles like a sack of bricks attached to every single one. Times ten.

Fumbling with his shoe with the toe of one foot he managed to kick it off in the general direction of his shoe rack and the next shoe soon followed. There was just something about walking bare foot that always got to him. Like not having to remember just how much he had been on his feet lately because of the new firm that was merging with his business this month.

Was this the end of his struggles as he knew it? Was the past day and a half the last of his day and night fusses with management beneath him?

God, he hoped so.

Looking around the dim room, he contemplated the amount of effort it would to take for him to get up off the couch, walk over to his bar, take out his half empty bottle of Premium Scotch, pour himself a nice tall glass with ice, close the bottle, put it back, walk back to the couch and then drink the entire delicious burning heaven of it.

Later. He would fix himself that drink later. It was only ten at night.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Corbin picked up the remote to his apartment and tuned the lights down to an even dimmer glow than they were already at and then threw the remote back on the couch. It bounced once on the black leather and skidded to the floor with a louder crash than he thought was physically possible.

He was just tired, thought. That was it.

That scotch was looking good right about now, though. Even better than a minute ago.

Groaning, he picked up the newspaper that he had discarded a foot away from his hand and opened up to a random page and read the searches that were on the page in random order.

There was always someone looking for something interesting like a blue couch with cup holders or a lamp with florescent bulbs that he liked to make fun of. Picker-uppers like that made him happy he was in the corporate business and didn't have time to want things like that. Tackiness wasn't really his thing, anyway. He liked smooth and dark.

His eyes roamed the page lower to the bottom and then stopped.

'20 year old woman looking for sperm donation from successful man."

Well, damn.

Corbin couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry out at what has become of humanity.

A sperm donation? Really? Couldn't the woman just get laid and get it over with?

But then that wasn't fair, was it.

Maybe she is having trouble having kids. Maybe it's a problem with her chromosomes and she had her eggs harvested and now she needed someone to fertilize them.

Maybe she was ugly. Or stupid.

Or both.

And damn, twenty?

Cutting it a bit young, wasn't she?

'No genetic illnesses.

May not be older than 30.'

Well, that sounded intelligent enough. So stupid was out. If she had the brain to think about the types of diseases going into this future kid then she has been thinking about this for a while now.

'Must have green eyes.

Must be above six ft. tall.

IQ of 115 or above preferred.'

Holly hell, woman. Is the worlds' natural selection of the male population not good enough? Green eyes and above six feet tall. That was getting a tad bit picky, if you asked him. Picky as hell, actually.

And an IQ of above 115. There was nothing wrong with men who had an IQ or around and about 100, he felt like telling her. He knew a few who were more fun to have a conversation with than some men who had the IQ or Einstein.

But then again, who was he to talk?

Corbin himself was above average with an IQ or 150. He remembered his young life full of lessons and tutoring. He had finished Calculus at the age of 13.

And as for the looks, he had inherited his deep green eyes from his mother. The only thing he had inherited from his father was his damn hair and height.

With his 6 feet and 4 inches, he was usually a very intimidating figure to behold in his office 34 stories up in his own private building.

Corbin ran his hand over his face again and looked at the paper.

He had always wanted to reply to one of the ads and donate to one of them.

Well, when he thought of it in the past he was usually more inclined to donate a couch or a rug or something.

Not sperm.

But hell.

If the lady insists…

Picking up his cell phone, he tried to remember any family illnesses that he knew of and could think of none. He had looked into it extensively at the age of 14 when he wanted to know if he was more likely to have cancer or any type of illness that would bother him in the future.

He looked at his phone and grunted again. What the hell. It's not like he could get an STD from a hospital.

He just prayed that none of his colleagues found out about this.

He dialed the number in the ad and leaned back in his comfortable couch and relished the feeling of some sort of cushion holding up his back.

"Hello?" a woman answered on the second ring.

He looked at the ad and then sighed.

"Yes, this is Corbin Aaron calling about the ad you placed in the newspaper recently…"