IT’S NOT MY BABY

‘It's not my baby,’ said the woman as she walked in front of me and then asked, 'would you like some food?'
‘I’ll have a samosa,’ I said, ‘I feel like something spicy.’
I picked the baby up from the floor and stood with it sitting comfortably on my forearm.
‘How old is it?’ I said.
‘Twenty-four weeks,’ she said.
I walked around the kitchen.
Beneath the industrial grill twelve uncooked joints of beef and more by the sink in front of a large window.
The baby put it’s arms round my neck.
‘I want to leave Mississippi,’ said the woman, ‘and go back north.’
‘Will you take the baby?’ I said.
‘I told you,' she said, 'it’s not my baby.'