Sitting in the waiting room, watching the women turn into statues, the statues turn into animals, the animals turn into faces, the faces turn into criminals. Their posters still flutter from their tacks on the post office wall. You got knocked up in a storage closet at the end of a corridor lined with stamp machines while the ghosts of postal workers were busy burying their faces in their spectral breakfasts. The fluorescent lights buzzed. Bacon spit and shriveled. English muffins crisped black deep in the neon slots. Between your legs, an egg cracked, a thick stream of viscous liquid oozing down your leg. You dabbed the corners of your lips with a paper napkin and decided to have it anyways.