A devastatingly good-looking man stopped me in the street today. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “but I believe this is yours. He placed a small fuzzy monkey on a keychain into my palm. 

“Pembe!” I shrieked and clutched him to my chest. 

“Thank you” I breathed up at the man. I  remembered that I had been eating tzatziki straight up like an animal with my hands and hadn’t gotten around to brushing my teeth. I also tried to suck in my stomach, but it was hard given that I am five months pregnant. 

“No problem,” he smiled and continued on his way. 

I stood for a moment staring at his elegant back, trying to remember when a guy had last stopped me in the street. 

“Oh Pembe,” I said sadly. 

“Whatever,” said Pembe, “He was probably gay. Call your husband.” 

So I did.