Fingerprints of You
““Even I know you’re not allowed caffeine.” He nodded toward my belly.
He didn’t ask about the father or about the due date, but as I smeared grape jelly across my toast I said, “I guess this week, if I could see the baby, he’d be making facial expressions,” remembering what I’d read in the pregnancy book that morning. “Frowning and squinting his eyes. Some babies start sucking their thumbs around this time,” I said.
“That’s so badass,” he said.
The diner was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the cooks in the back washing dishes and cutting food, getting ready for the morning rush as Aiden and I moved through conversations strangers typically have when they first meet. He talked about his job writing for the paper, and I told him I was worried about finding work to make money for when the baby came. I had never needed money like I needed it then.
“I’ve never had a job,” I said, “not really.”
“Jobs are overrated,” he told me. “You’ll be fine, though.
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