pizza boxes

I’m going down a street in New York when a woman collapses at an intersection. I stop beside her as do a few other people. She’s lying on the ground unconscious. I lean over her to check and say, Somone call 911. A woman on the other side of her has her phone out, and I think she’s going to call 911, but then she’s fiddling with it, texting a friend, taking pictures. So I whip out my phone, exasperated. I’m just starting to dial when a garage door goes up, and I realize we’re right in front of a fire house. We take her inside into an exam room. They put her on a table and tell us that she’s pregnant. The collapse either resulted from the pregnancy or endangers it. I have two big babies under my arms. I’m lugging them like firewood, and the doctor tells me to take them home with me.

I’m in the kitchen of an apartment I’m living in. Someone has been refurbishing it piece by piece. There an old pump that’s been replaced. There’s debris all over the floor, and I start pulling it all together. I realize it’s all pizza boxes. I’m stacking them, and underneath are piles and piles of broken down box pieces. The linoleum is in bad shape and doesn’t go all the way to the walls. I’m considering replacing it, but I only rent and know the management company will never pay for it.

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