I watch her sway slightly and prop herself against the wall. I’ve seen enough pregnant women in restaurant kitchens—line cooks who worked until their water broke, servers who hid their condition behind aprons—to recognize the signs. She needs to sit down, drink water, and about a dozen other things she won’t let me do for her.
“You should eat something,” I say, knowing she’ll refuse. Sure enough, she starts to argue, so I interrupt, “There’s a diner two blocks down. Greasy spoon kind of place. Nothing fancy, but they’ll have toast and ginger ale.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I can see her weighing her options. Pride versus practicality. The baby wins.
“Okay,” she says. “But this doesn’t change anything.”
I need a shower. The blood from the parking lot creep is drying under my fingern
