I once
heard another friend explaining why she didn't
spring for the breast pump even though it was the only item left
on the registry: «I just didn't want her to
think of me every time she put that machine
on her boobs.»
I could
hear them like voices in my own head — why has this boy stopped talking, queer as a winged snake is he, leant against the wall with such a look
on his face, would be handsome if he weren't so sullen, what a chest he has, deep as a wrestler's, how does it
spring from those twisted haunches to which are pawled legs like hanks of rope, oh god, his ribcage is heaving as if at any moment he may vomit, maybe he is ill, boy what is your problem, alas, my wordless enquiries cause his convulsions to grow worse, I
think he may be going to have a fit, what will I do if he dies, oh dear, my further anxious attempts to communicate, with twisting «wherefore» hand motions and raising of eyebrows, seem to cause violent shudders, bugger's lips are writhing in some kind of agony, should a doctor be called, where can one find a doctor in this place, where the hell am I anyway, what the fuck am I doing here?