—AND THE SUN BURNED LOW, ON THE RADIO

 

Cheap

 

They’re having a sale on babies at Neiman Marcus, and we’ve just miscarried for the fifth time, so we go and walk the marble aisles that resemble footpaths installed in museums or Pharoh’s mansions. 

Over to the side are the newborns, propped up like erect leather boots or running shoes that somehow giggle if you poke them in their bellies, about where the shoelaces would wear down after a while and unravel. 

“This one looks like you,” my wife says, perkier than I’ve seen her since our doc praised us for trying to procreate. “It has your same cowlick and unfortunate overbite, plus it’s half-off.” 

“A steal,” I agree.

So, I bundle up the dopey, doppelganger kid under my armpit and go to pay at the counter where the clerk says, “Oh geez, I’m so sorry, I don’t know how that one got in. It’s an immigrant, but if you look on the other side, by the Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik rack, you’ll find a great selection of kids who all have their tags, plus most of them are a lot cheaper than what you’ve picked.”