Page 75 of Salty Pickle

“She’s in the right place.”

Lucy comes out in the shorts, showing miles of leg. “I can’t button these either, but they tuck nicely. They’ll be good transition shorts after the baby comes.”

“Turn around,” I tell her.

She blushes but makes a circle. The shorts cup her ass just above the start of those thighs I can’t stop staring at. Now I’m picturing her in them but topless.

Cool your jets, Court.

“They look good,” I say.

She tries to peer over her shoulder to see the back of them in the mirror. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

We try on sneakers until she finds a pair that makes her cry out with pleasure. “They feel like clouds!” She speed-walks around the store. “My feet will never hurt again!”

I wonder how much she has endured lately. The belly pains. One pair of worn-out shoes.

If I have anything to say about it, she’ll have everything.

We make one more pass through the store, grabbing socks, underwear, more T-shirts, and another dress like the one I got her, only pale pink.

“Last night, I dreamed the baby was a girl,” she says as we head to the counter.

“Despite the string test?”

“It’s just a dream.”

“Not nearly as reliable as a string test.” I shake my head.

The woman rings us up. “My mama was big into that black magic witchy stuff. She says if your pupils dilate when you look in a mirror, it’s a boy.”

“Really?” Lucy’s gaze flicks toward a sunglass display with a mirror.

I chuckle. “Go on. Try it.” I’d prefer she be away from the register at totaling time, anyway. I don’t want her to feel like she’s not worth the amount, and she will. She always does.

I wonder when was the last time someone spoiled her?

Probably not since she lost her grandmother. That woman lavished her with time and love and teaching. Those are the best expenditures. I knew it once, too.

I shake that off.

While Lucy peers into the sunglass mirror, I quickly pass the woman a credit card.

“How dilated are we talking?” Lucy calls.

“Beats me!” the woman calls back.

Lucy takes out her phone. “I’m googling it.”

I tuck my card back in my wallet. “I’d trust black magic over Google these days.”

“Same.” The woman passes me three large bags. “Have fun with the farmers.”

We take our time strolling to the apartment building. Lucy holds my arm so she can walk with her face upturned to the morning light, her eyes closed.

There aren’t many people downtown on a Saturday morning, mostly dog walkers from the nearby high rises. But they spot her belly, and all my bags, and smile at us. We must be the picture of expectant couple bliss.

I try putting that role on for a minute. Lucy is my wife. Our firstborn is about to arrive. We’ve been in love for ages. This is our neighborhood, our life.

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