She turned her gaze somewhat uneasily toward the closed door and felt a little dispirited. A distasteful undertaking, she thought. Nothing to do with murder or ‘the sanctity of motherhood’ – phrases she had had plenty of from the proper law-abiding doctors in proper lab coats behind proper desks. She was twenty-five years old and master of her own body, not according to the law, which she could not care less about, but because she wanted to be. Not a single sentimental thought about powder-blue ruffles and a little toothless grin. There were already plenty of babies in the world. And this little parasite had only brought her nausea and discomfort, and left a slimy, gray veil over everything that used to be nice: the first rays of morning under the roll-down shades; the coffee she had to switch to tea, which didn’t taste good to her anymore either; the evening’s heart-wrenching yearning for Bent, which had changed into yawning exhaustion, difficult to keep hidden for long. Besides, recently he had only come by a couple of times a week. That made sense. She wasn’t too crazy about being with a man who just wanted to feel good and fall asleep in her arms. She remembered how agitated she was when he had a tooth abscess which made his cheek swell up, and they couldn’t be seen out together. It fit as badly with his handsome, well-chiseled face as a grotesque swollen belly would fit with her hourglass waist, of which she was so proud. Everything oppressive about marriage had to be kept out of their relationship. Wouldn’t it look fine if she called him up now and said in a tearful wifely voice: There’s something we absolutely have to discuss right now! She wasn’t the strongest person, for better or for worse. She wasn’t going to try to convince him to leave his wife and child on account of this accident. She was afraid of hurting anyone, and she had the innate conviction that love and marriage rarely had anything to do with one another.

Her turn was approaching soon; in her mind she repeated her false name and her ‘desperate circumstances’. He would ask, ‘Why can’t you keep the baby?’, spuriously and pro forma. She already couldn’t stand him, the way you might feel antipathy toward a stranger on whose mercy you depend. Naturally she should – well, what should she do? She knew herself. She was no proud, heroic character who could be a ‘self-supporting, single mother’ and disregard the prejudices of others. Maybe single and self-supporting, but not mother. Not this way, in any case. A ball and chain to a man – an obligation! She had always imagined that someday they would part with neither tears nor regrets, something like: Thank you for the time we have spent together. But later, much later, as much later as possible. Evenings without him? The city lights and fun without him?