This is a story about childbirth, among other things. It appeared in the Summer 2000 issue of the Laurel Review.
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“Hey,” my neighbor says to me. I’m vacuuming bits of Christmas tree outside my door. “Did you see this?”
I look down the hallway. We have never passed a civil word before this. Only reluctant eye contact.
“I wasn’t here,” she says, as I come over. “But if it leaked, how come my hallway’s dry?”
She’s like a detective investigating her own crime. She eyes the wet patch outside her door suspiciously, as if there is a distinct possibility that the water came from someplace other than from under her own door. To read more, please click here.
