"I knew a woman writer," the MWL said, "who, when she was working on a story or a novel even a long poem sometimes would strangely enough exhibit all of the signs of pregnancy. She would run up to me in the street and say, 'Hey love, touch my belly. You can feel the art moving underneath the reality.' And she was right. I would put my hand on her bulging stomach and I could feel little kicks and turns."
"What happened after she finished whatever she was writing?" asked Tranny.
"She would have a party," the MWL replied.
"I mean," interrupted Tranny, "I mean with the... with whatever was turning and kicking."
"At the party she was always sleek and thin," the MWL commented. "I don't know exactly," he said, trying to avoid confronting his friend's question directly. "She would get very drunk at the party and she would pay all her debts...even some you didn't remember her incurring."
"'It's the adoption money,' she would say, sadly. 'I gave it up for adoption. The next one I will keep for myself,' she would add. But she never did, not as far as I know."