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Show Motherlunge a novel 117 idiom, then continued to slide her way forward toward the couch in the front bay window. From there, she could watch for the taxi. "Like a sieve," she said. I ran upstairs to change clothes. Eli had left his Cramps concert t-shirt in a loose, Eli-smelling ball on the floor, so I put that on, and black jeans. As I came downstairs again I could hear General in the kitchen, lapping up the amniotic fluid with a faint \ { galloping sound. "Ah," Pavia was saying in the front room. I found her with one knee up on the couch armrest, humping it a little, unpleasantly. I put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't I look like I'm in Drama Club in this outfit?" I asked, pushing down. "Prop Master." She stared at me. "Light designer?" She took a deep breath in and let it out. "I thought labor was supposed to start out slow," she said in a low voice. "This is fast. Is it supposed to be happening this fast?" "You came fast, according to Dorothy. She thought you were going to be bom in the car. " I scanned the street for the taxi. I jostled her shoulder a bit. The street was full of morning traffic, and incredibly not one of the sedans, trucks, station wagons, coupes, or delivery vans was a yellow taxi stopping at the curb in front of our townhouse. General padded into the living room, licking what must be (it came to me) his chops. We lavished our divided attention on him; his long, unbobbed tail-an extension of the spine, as Pavia had once pointed out-whipped the side of the couch. I willed the taxi to appear in the window. |