The baby unable to be turned. The mother, finally incapable of any control at all, given over simply to screaming. Then the ether, the cutting, and the rich metallic smell of blood and amniotic fluids. The child, limp, too still and grayish at first, then, with the shock of air, squalling into purple life—a boy, his genitals absurdly swollen, his body slick with matter and blood.Then his arrival at the party, still wearing his dark work suit, still carrying in his mind the astonishment of the birth, and somehow, he felt, the scent of blood. The wave of voices from within the house, the lovely girl turning to him in a dress the odd color of her own lips as they curved into her mouth, the sudden plunge into talk and laughter and celebration.And through it all, her face lifting to his over and over, as though she had never truly seen him before. Hello. Hello again. Once they bumped into each other and she turned and said “Oh! It’s you!” in a way that made him feel she had been waiting for him forever.
