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.
Some guys have super bad mojo.