by Jay Rosenshield

They both want a baby. If only they could agree on when. Riding home in a taxi at 9:30 on a Wednesday night, I knew I was in trouble when I heard a voicemail message from Emily saying she’d forgotten her keys and would be waiting for me at the Starbucks near our apartment. What I didn’t know was how much trouble.

Sweeping into the coffee shop, I offered the breeziest of apologies. Emily was not charmed.

“I’ve been waiting here for two hours,” she fumed.

“It’s not my fault you forgot your keys,” I retorted—reasonably enough, I thought.

On the walk home, I rolled out the excuses. I’d been at a work party, a networking thing. The music was loud, and I didn’t hear the phone ring. I was on my way out when I ran into someone I knew. And so on. She wasn’t having any of it. “You smell like liquor,” she groused.