I remember a girl who liked babies. She loved babies. She was crazy about babies… Let me rephrase: she was crazy about making babies, lots and lots of them. She loved it so much she cried.

“Yeah, baby!.. There, baby!.. Ah, baby!.. Baby!”

So babies filled up her house. She made them all over. And at friends’ places, with friends. Even, from time to time, she felt like making her babies in public, despite strangers, or with strangers. She always had time for her babies.

Everybody knew about this. It was the second thing I was told about her the first time I saw her, right after her name. Some found it funny, like me. For others it was intriguing, since they didn’t believe that she could make so many babies; until she made some with them present. She really loved making babies.

Her hobby became an acceptable joke among her acquaintances, a really recurrent one, and remained for years as such. But as any truth, it was uncomfortable at times, like when she threw a party at her home.

“So, tell us, where have you actually made your babies around here? You know, so that we don’t touch baby spots”. Damned be the person who brought it up…

Everybody stood up and stayed on their feet for the rest of the party after her answer. People quitted eating anything that came from the stove, or the kitchen counters, or the fridge, too. No doubt she had made lots of babies, all around.