“She is in the car now, holding the seatbelt away from her belly, aware of the extent to which there is no overlap between the sets ‘car designers’ and ‘pregnant women’. I’m pushing the speed limit, one, sometimes two miles per hour, and it makes me feel like the tattooed despot of some post-apocalyptic road gang. Between contractions she has managed to fish out the yoga bullshit from her bag, looks at it, decides against it. She reaches up to the visor, where the disc holder is strapped, and produces Doolittle. It is in immediately, and Debaser scours away the surreal fog which has thus far clung to the proceedings. “Fuck yoga,” she says, when her body allows her to speak. She looks out the window, shaking her head. “Goddamned yoga.” I accelerate to thirty-five miles per hour.”
Who Knew?