A young, heavyset guy, sitting on some steps, asks me, "Having a boy?"
Yes, I told him, a bit surprised but grateful he didn't ask the usual stupid questions or inquire whether I was having twins. "Any time now."
"Is it your first?" he correctly surmised.
I told him yes, that it had taken me a while to find the right guy, but what can you do?
"He still in the picture?" he asked me.
"Yes, he's my husband," I said, wondering why the wedding ring on a chain around my neck wasn't enough of a signal.
"And you're going to stay with him?"
Suddenly, the whole conversation became clear to me. He wasn't just making conversation; this was his version of a pick-up line. Maybe that's why he was hanging out on a stoop in front of an unoccupied house near the bus stop: to hit on pregnant women (there are several in my neighborhood right now).
Wordlessly, I pulled Una after me and waddled away. Fortunately, by the time we'd mailed the letters and returned, he was gone, back to underneath whatever rock he calls home.
Moral:
Some guys have super bad mojo.
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