And it had nothing to do with the baby, or maybe it had everything to do with the baby, but he was so tall and handsome sitting there in the chair, the tissue looking so small in those lumberjack-size hands, which could so easily hold a newborn or the handle of a car seat or assemble a crib, and then he’d look over at me with those shining eyes, his face open in wonder, and I would think about how easily he gave of himself, of his own feelings, his own vulnerability. How easy it was for him to be kind, to give me coats or custom pizzas or lap dances, to bestow those gifts of time or care or
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