Your BabyI saw someone with a baby but I couldn’t tell from there so I looked at my hands. There was so much traffic. I’m finished getting to know people who might die. You were on the phone in Spanish—it was you and your baby, finally. I’d love that. I love you. You hadn’t been to the store in a year and here you were in the center of town. Missed a spot. How are you? I’d been wondering what would happen if one of us strangers died, or moved. Under the weather. The other wouldn’t know. We just wouldn’t see each other anymore.
You and your wife had been trying for some years, you said. You were once in a crash so bad you almost died. The cop told you how lucky you were as you climbed out of your car, saturated. Of course I didn’t forget you. Of course you didn’t forget me. She’s a girl you call something in Spanish and something a little else in English. That’s lovely. Your wife is working—nights, I remember—at a nursing home. Everyone’s digestion is getting better. Your girl squeezes a pacifier and blinks at me. Me, too.