“Damages,” by Irene Pujadas
This conversation about the inconveniences caused by the child went on with no concern for the physical integrity of the baby—a lump of tender, pink flesh, her body soft and abundant—who seesawed from one side of the apartment door to the other, first in, then out, until finally she snapped in half and the man and woman said, at the same time, Look what you’ve done—proof that both of them had, at the very least, one thing in common.
