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Overheard
On the ferry back to Manhattan last night, 10:00.
GIRL A: “Bitch, how many months are you?”
GIRL B: “Six.”
GIRL A: “You know what you havin’?”
GIRL B: “First they said a boy, then a girl, now they say they ain’t know.”
GIRL A: “Maybe it all them forties you been drinkin’, bitch.”
GIRL B: “Ha, I ain’t no Des’ree. Stupid mother fucker.”
GIRL A: “That bitch? She done had the kid three months early. I was still a heavy eight, and she laid with Damon behind my muthafuckin’ back.”
GIRL B wisely ignores this line of conversation, leaving a few precious seconds of silence before one of the group’s sleeping babies wakes with a cry.
These girls couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Each of them is holding a child, and with the exception of one who doesn’t appear to be pregnant, each of them is developing another one. That’s six girls, six babies, and five robust baby bumps.