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‘I don’t know if I ever told you this, but we’d been living in our cave for about six months when I noticed Evie had put on a little weight. It didn’t surprise me as she’d started eating like an entelodont. At dinner that night, by the time I finished thanking Al for the meal on our table, Evie—with a lot of gnawing, open-mouthed chewing and chop-licking—had guzzled down her meal and released a prolonged belch. She eyed my untouched meal and said with a gluttonous glint in her eye, “You gonna finish that?”

‘I ended up eating my dinner with one hand as my other hand gripped my club to ward off Evie’s covetous hands.

‘Then, mid-meal, she smiled at me and batted her eyelids and gave me the old camelops doey-eyed look and said, “Ads, darling, sweetie, could you please get me a skin of water?”

‘I said, “My pleasure.” Letting my guard down, I rose and disappeared into the butler’s pantry.

‘Sure enough, I returned and all that remained of my dinner were bones picked clean.

‘Evie said, “I can’t help it. I’m eating for two.”

‘I said, “More like two dozen.”

‘Evie responded by bursting into tears, and I stood and walked around the table to comfort her by trying to wrap my arms around her, but even then it was a struggle to touch my hands on the other side of her gargantuan girth.

‘Bigger and bigger she got. She really let herself go. She stopped brushing her hair and shaving her legs and armpits. I lost count of the number of chins she had. I swear she was turning into a woolly mammuthus. I even tied a skin to her wrist to avoid accidentally spearing her.

‘Then her cravings began. Oh My Al! The first time they occurred, she woke in the middle of the night, banging on about someone called Cephalic Response strangling her to death. “Adam,” she whispered. I stirred but returned to sleep, blissful in the dreams behind my rapid eye movement. Then came an “Adam!” and a thump on my shoulder. Still I, the narcoleptic neanderthal, slept. By this time, her stomach juices were about to consume all and sundry, and her gurgling woke me. As I opened an eye, she brought her knees to her rounded belly and launched a double kick directed at my nether regions. Bingo! She’d hit the sweet spot, and I rose from the dead, clutching the family’s precious pistachios, and released a high-pitched “What?”.

‘Evie said, “I need ribs.”

‘I said, “Pardon?”

‘Evie said, “Ribs. A whole rack of ribs. A whole rack of ribs covered in a herb sauce.”

‘I said, “OK. I’ll get them first thing in the morning.”

‘I rolled over and grimaced as a wave of nausea washed over me.

‘Evie said, “Now!” And she released another double kick that hit the auroch’s eye. That got me up and about. I stood. I gathered my spear. I rushed forward—straight into the cave wall. With a mighty crack, I was down for the count, only for me to cup my hands over my groin and stagger to my feet, fearful a third and final kick from my bloated beloved would lead to inversion and end my days as a procreator.

‘I said, “Right, back in a sec.” And I hobbled out the cave, holding a torch in one hand and my club in the other.

‘Evie called from within, “Hurry! And can you get a mouflon shank while you’re out? … no, no, make that two. With a rosemary sauce on the side. And a skinful of juice … no, no, not juice. Nectar. Nectar of the gods.”

‘I dared to shout back, “Where the hell am I going to find a god at this time of night?”

‘And Evie shouted, “That’s your problem! Just get it!”

‘And the sad part about her cravings was that by the time I wandered about in the dark and hunted and gathered and returned, she’d have either nodded off again or moved on to another craving. And all I could do was shake my head and turn into the dawn light and, with spear and club in hands, start an early shift.

‘Early one evening several months later, as we sat before the fire with Evie listening to a rather funny hunting story of mine, I handed her an after-dinner mint sprig. Though fearful that one last mouthful was sure to see her explode, I carried on and delivered the punchline. Evie stood and pissed herself.

‘Hey, I’ll admit it was an amusing anecdote, but not, you know, “piss-your-skins” funny.

‘Anyway, Evie said, “He’s coming.”

‘I looked towards the cave entrance and said, “Who?”

‘Evie said, “The son.”

‘I said, “What? It’s only just set. That last after-dinner mint’s gone straight to your head.”

‘And Evie said, “Not sun. Son. S-O-N. The firstborn of Fallible Man.”

‘Evie started groaning, screaming and calling me all sorts of cursed names. On and on it went. Ever chivalrous, I leant forward and asked her if there was anything I could do. She said, “You’ve done enough already!” She then suggested I’d been born out of wedlock. Though a little taken aback, I lingered at Evie’s side. After a prolonged silence, followed by more groaning, screaming and cursing, I asked her if it was painful. She shot me a death stare. I asked if she could help me out by rating the pain between 1 and 10. She reached over and gave my pistachios the old kopidodon-grip and said, “Like that, but to a magnitude of one hundred.” And I squeaked, “Gotcha.” And so it went on and on, throughout the night, and all the while, Evie made damn sure I knew it was all my fault, and I made damn sure I stayed more than an arm’s length from her.

‘At dawn there was a bit of a gap—not long, mind you—between Evie’s groaning, screaming and cursing, so I, feeling a tad peckish, asked her what was for breakfast. A barrage of curses and insults followed, and then I casually said, “No rush. Just finish what you’re doing first.”

‘Evie said to me, “Adam, sweetie.”

‘I said, “Yes?”

‘And Evie said, “Adam, sweetie, come over here. I need to whisper something in your ear.”

‘Fearing a pulping of my pistachios again, I graciously declined her invitation.

‘Evie said, “Adam, sweetie, please, I just need to whisper something in your ear.”

‘I said, “And you’ll not kopidodon-grip me?”

‘Evie said, “No. I promise. Look, I’ll keep my free hand on this rock.”

‘I acquiesced and stepped forward.

‘Evie said, “Closer.”

‘I acquiesced and knelt beside her.

‘Evie said, “Closer.”

‘I acquiesced and placed my ear to her mouth.

‘Evie whispered, “See you after the birth.”

‘I can’t remember what happened after that, but next thing I knew, I was sitting dazed with my back against the wall, my newborn son in my arms, a throbbing, aching egg on my head and Evie cooking breakfast.

‘I looked over to Evie and smiled, and I noticed her breasts had swelled. They were e-nor-mous. I gave Evie the horny eye and said, “Heeeeey.” And she gave me the death stare and said, “Noooo waaaaay!”

‘In my arms, my little newborn, my miracle, my Cain, released this little coo-coo, and I saw he had my eyes and my appetite, for one glance by him at Evie’s swollen breasts, and in a flash he latched onto her nipple. I swore he’d the jaws of a megalodon. And as Evie grimaced in pain, I teared up with pride. I felt like a god, having created one in my likeness.

‘Later, when our Abel was born, Evie, for some reason unknown to me, suggested I pull a double shift on the killing fields. She even packed me breakfast, lunch and dinner. As I waved goodbye, she said, “It’ll save you a bit of a headache.”

‘Look, I know I’m not the touchy-feely, man-for-a-crisis kind of guy Evie wants me to be. Come day’s end, I’m tired and spent, and all I want to do when I get home is relax. You know, have some me time: daydream into the fire or unpuzzle the clouds or spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on our toilet rock, reading the stars. But, no, it’s just one endless stream of chores: put out the garbage, unblock the toilet rock, repair the cave door. I tell you, it never ends. And whenever I finish, and I tiptoe towards my man cave, Evie always shouts that I need to spend quality time with the boys. Something about the importance of bonding and role modelling. I don’t know where she gets her ideas from, what starry self-help firmament she reads, but it’s doing my head in.

‘When I do spend time with the boys, I find myself choking up and misty-eyed as I look down upon them and marvel at their beauty, innocence and endless life potential. How did I, Imperfect Man, create such perfection? I ask myself.

‘I like to keep the boys busy with games; you know, those family favourites like Knuckles or Charades or Pick Up Sticks or Pin the Tail on the Equus africanus, although Evie has asked us to play outside because of all the droppings and ceaseless braying. Once a week, we all gather around the fire, and I perform a hand-shadow story. And at bedtime, I tuck the boys under their bedskins and either read the stars to them or sing “Ba-Ba Black Mouflon”.

‘It saddens me they will grow up having never seen their grandfather. It saddens me more that one day they will leave the family cave and need to navigate the vicissitudes of life without my guidance. And it saddens me most that they, on my last day, will stand by my knotted bed and bear witness to Al’s greatest curse upon me: Death.

‘Our boys can be a handful at times. Evie reckons one of these days, one of them is going to murder the other. Nonsense, I told her, they’re just being boys. I know Evie worries about their future. What parent doesn’t want the best for their children? Last week, Evie said, “Where are they going to meet a nice girl? And will they have the freedom to pursue the career of their choice, or will they end up lowly hunters and gatherers like their father?” I said, “Hey!” And Evie patted me on my hand and said, “Sorry. No offence, but what with all that meat they’re eating, I’d love to see them apply their brains rather than their brawn. Can’t you just see Cain in farming and Abel in animal management?” Blinded by my fragile ego, I admitted that, then and there, I couldn’t.

‘Look, I know Abel’s the younger son, the apple of his mother’s eye, so I try to spend a little more time with Cain. I’m encouraging him to develop his hunting skills, and, I tell you, he’s a dead-eye dick when rock throwing. I have a gut feeling he may even end up being famous for it throughout the aeons.

‘I’ll admit the boys always seem to squabble. Abel will go on and on about being the favourite, and Cain will crack and jump on his brother with flailing fists. Last week, I even had to put Cain in the naughty corner of the cave because I found him standing behind his brother, with a raised club in his hand and murderous intent in his eyes. I told him he could’ve killed his brother, and Cain smirked and mumbled something that sounded awfully like “Better luck next time”.

‘Now that the boys are a little older, Evie has a bit more spare time, so she’s giving the cave a makeover. She’s been doing all these weird paintings on the walls. Said she’s expressing her inner-self. I’m not sure if it’s to my taste, but, hey, happy wife, happy life. She’s even talking about taking over my man cave. Is nothing sacred anymore?

‘One evening some months ago, with the boys tucked in bed and me lolling beside a roaring fire while picking lint from my navel-less belly, Evie pulled out her paints and started mixing them. She’s developed this blowing technique where she draws in a mouthful of paint, swirls and gargles it, and then, taking a big breath through her nose, she places her hand on the wall and blows out the paint. There’s an entire wall of outlines of the boys’ hands and feet—snapshots at each full moon, testament to their transformation from infanthood to boyhood. Not many of me, though. I’m a tad paint-shy.

‘So, on this evening, Evie swirled away as her cheeks ballooned in and out. She placed her hand upon the wall and took this huge breath, when I said, “Hey, Evie.”

‘She paused and turned towards me and gave her head a quick raise as if to say, “What?”

‘I said, “You’ll never believe this, but you’ve a grey hair.”

‘Sppppplllllaaaaattttt! I copped the lot. I’ll admit my indiscretion left me more than a little red-faced—actually, more ochre-faced—and there is now a perfect outline of my startled self displaying front and centre in our lounging room. I tried to wash it off, but I’m afraid it’s there in perpetuity. Who knows what the art world will make of my silhouette when some cave explorer stumbles upon it in the distant future?

‘A word of caution, Felsic, should you discover that Mrs Felsic has a loss of pigmentation in her locks. Never use the “G” word. If you need to voice your observation—and I seriously urge you to remain silent—but if you must comment, always say “silver”. Never “grey”.

‘Evie’s not the only arty one in our cave. I’ve got a creative side, too. And I recently tried to express it. I’ve catalogued the constellations, naming them and etching images of them on my man-cave ceiling. Last month, I gutted a smilodon and strung up and dried its gut and made myself something I called a twang, upon which I strummed while singing songs to the goddesses of the night sky. And by a roaring fire under the bright stars, I serenaded the wonderful Mira, that beaming beauty within Cetus, the sea monster trying to devour the chained and sacrificial Andromeda, and then amidst the great Centaur, I directed my dulcet tones to Lucy, up there in the sky with her diamonds.

‘And as I sat cross-legged and strummed and sung away, Evie placed her hands over her ears and the boys cried and Diabetes raised his head and howled mournfully at the full moon and, in the distance, beyond the ring of firelight, woolly mammuthuses trumpeted and smilodons roared and archaeopteryxes squawked.

‘Evie gave me a polite smile and said, “Adam, sweetie, why don’t you try humming your little ditty in your head? You are upsetting the balance of nature.” Somewhat taken aback, I said, “I finally express myself—indeed, express my true feelings—with a song for the aeons, and all I get is the old upsetting-the-balance-of-nature line. Let’s be democratic about this. Who wants to hear Daddy’s song?” Evie gave me a double thumbs down and the boys cried and Diabetes raised his head and howled mournfully at the full moon and, in the distance, beyond the ring of firelight, woolly mammuthuses trumpeted and smilodons roared and archaeopteryxes squawked. Heeding the democratic vote, I stood, threw my twang on the fire, stomped off and sulked in my man cave for the rest of the evening. And a calming silence returned to our little world, east of Eden.

‘And yet despite all our issues, our getting on each other’s nerves and our grumpiness towards each other, I wouldn’t want to be anyone or anywhere else. When Evie and I cuddle up under the twinkling stars—our bellies full, the fire roaring, our toes toasty and the boys tucked safe, sound and asleep under their sleeping skins—I think myself the luckiest man alive. And what I thought I’d lost, my Paradise lost, I’ve now found, only this time it’s so much better. Yes. That’s it. I’ve Paradise regained and more. And all I want to do is turn Evie around and look into her starlit eyes and wipe the crystal tear resting on her soft cheek and whisper to her that she is the only woman for me, now and forever, and that with all my heart I love—shhh! Shhh! She’s coming. Pretend you’re inert. And don’t even think about telling her I’ve gone all mushy … Da De Da De Dum—’

‘You’re not talking to that rock again, are you?’

‘No … no … no, dearest.’

‘You are. I can tell. You always put your tongue in your left cheek when you’re lying to me. All I asked you to do was one job. One simple domestic task. Put. The. Rubbish. Out. But here you are, half an hour later, jawboning to an igneous boulder.’

‘But … but … but, honeypot.’

‘Don’t you honeypot me, you motherless idler. Get inside and mind the kids while I take a moment to cool my temper under the stars.

‘As for you … you … you complicitous clast, you … you … you duplicitous dacite, you … you … Oh, Rocky, you didn’t tell him about us, did you? It feels like aeons since we last spoke. He’s not been banging on about his miserable lot in life, has he? About his legacy? About the boys? About me? Look, I know I drive him crazy, but hey, someone’s got to keep the bugger on his toes, I say. You know, baffle him with my unpredictability, keep him guessing about when his next feed and nookie are coming and fill his meaningless existence with lots of chores. Yes, I know I can do them all so much better, and, unlike him, I can multitask, but I need to keep him busy, else he’ll just sit there by the fire and contemplate his hairy belly and wallow in self-pity. I know God cursed me with subservience, but that doesn’t mean I’m not running the show.

‘Look, I tell you, Rocky, Adam’s close. So close. If only he knew. And you know what? I love him. I love him for the man who’s sacrificed everything for me. I love him for the man he strives to be. And I love him for being the flawed man, in all his imperfection, we both see—shhh! Shhh! He’s coming. Don’t you dare tell him what I’ve been saying! But thanks for listening. To me, and him. A girl would have to have rocks in her head not to love him to bits. Bye. And see you for my therapy session tomorrow. I’ve been dying for a chat.’