House of Placenta

“You see that girl over there with green hair,” Ray says.
At a woman across the street, he shook his finger. I knew Ray from New York. We had a mutual friend and we moved to San Francisco around the same time. I bumped into him in the Mission. In a dark corner outside a library near Haight Street, I spent the night trying to make myself as small as I could. People sleeping in their beds surrounded me. I got jealous of those with keys to doors.
“Yeah,” I say.
“This needs to be said. I have to tell someone.”
“Ok.”
“I saw that girl at a party last night. Apparently she had an abortion that day. She got wasted and had a piece of placenta coming out of her so she puts it on a napkin and walks around showing it to people.”
“Can I crash at your crib?”
“My house isn’t a hotel.”

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