It is only then that I notice the object that is, quite literally, between us, beneath the line of the railings. A pram with a sleeping infant inside it.
He is a dad. He’s taken, obviously. He’s more than taken. He’s in that heady, blissful, baby-bonding oxytocin bubble my old friends used to try to describe. He’s probably only talking to me right now because he’s lost the run of himself.
“So, still unpacking?” he continues, seeming not to notice that my soul has slipped from my body. “How’s it been going?” he asks, in that way that is polite and only requires a “great.”
“Yeah, great,” I autofill. In the back of my mind, I think:Help Me.
“I live three houses up.” He points farther along my side of the street.
“Oh, right. Okay. You’re actually only the second person I’ve spoken to on the street,” I tell him, in a tone I hope expresses merely platonic, civic affability.
“I’ve been here around five years and I hardlyknowanyone. I see them come and go but, you know…I think they save all their energy for the yearly fundraisers. But the group chat’s pretty active.”
I am already planning to find his name on it and Google him.
He gestures to my shame-filled recycling bags. “I’ve got a flyer on the fridge for the bin days—it’s week on and off for general waste. Might be helpful?”
“Maybe, yeah, might be worth a look.” I smile, and wish upon wish that our conversation was about anything in the world but general waste.
I’m an attractive woman, I’m told by my few remaining friends. I could make a killing picking up divorcés on Bumble.
“Sorry—I’m being rude,” he says, stretching a hand out over the metal railings. “I’m Matt, Number Twenty-six.”
I take his hand and we shake.
“Frankie Green.” I smile.
His skin is cool to the touch, in spite of the warmth of the day. I shiver as we shake hands.
“You have kids?” he asks, brightening at the prospect that we might have that in common, too.
I feel the old ache. I try not to let my smile slip. You can’t answer that question with an “almost.”
“Nope, just a cat for me,” I answer, keeping it light.
An eruption of high-pitched cries suddenly cascades from deep inside the pram bassinet.
Matt looks at me with an apologetic smile.
“Milk. That’ll be it. Better get back and get a bottle on the go,” he declares. He starts to push the pram away and panic flares in me: I might not run into him again. His house number has already flown from my memory.
“Post me the flyer on the group chat,” I call after him.
He looks back over his shoulder and flashes a quick wave. “Sure,” he calls back, then stops. “No, wait, just, just, come with me,” he offers, pushing the pram on. “We’re right here. I’ll pop her in and grab it for you.”
The idea of bursting in on his postpartum wife while they try to calm their screaming infant sounds sick-making, but I find myself following him.
Once we get to Number 26, I watch him gently lift the pram, baby and all, up the steps while I wait.
I catch only a peek of his hallway as he disappears inside. It is large and bright and immaculately presented. He hurries back, disheveled from the chaos of a baby’s cries, and hands me a brightly colored flyer on which the bins have faces.
For a moment, he hesitates on the steps, runs a hand through his hair, then says,
“Do you want to go for a coffee sometime?”
My brain short-circuits; I open my mouth to reply but I have too many questions.
The baby bawls on from the hallway inside and Matt can’t wait for my answer.
