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Life, actually…

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She takes her smoking breaks outdoors, right here in front of her office building, right next to the old bookshop.

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Puffing away on a cigarette or two, she stares at third avenue north and occasionally speaks to passersby, but mainly she speaks only when spoken to.

On rainy days she actually retreats to the protection of the bookshop entrance, particularly during CLOSED hours.

What does she look like, this inhaling exhaling denizen of the lawyered structure next to the old bookshop?

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I catch glimpses of her, since I don’t wish to impose on her hazy bubble, her safe space.

But I do know what she looks like because we often exchange pleasantries.

Here’s what I know—and it is more than I need to know:

She is young, attractive, well dressed, neatly dressed, and apologetically smiling.

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What makes her imprint upon my own private bubble is the fact that she is pregnant with twins.

This healthy-appearing pleasant smoker carries her twins within her protective cone of loneness, and all the things I wish to say to her are things that I will never say to her because I have some understanding of the preciousness of privacy and loneness.

What do I want to say if only it would make any difference at all?

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Well, I’d like to plead with her about the smoking.

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“Please don’t smoke. Your twins will be affected. How you spend your later years will be affected. How you wind up will be affected.”

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Maybe something like that is what I would say to the smoking childbearer who speaks to me in the third avenue doorway.

But what I actually say to her is something like, “How are you today?” She smiles and says Fine.

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One day I am so bold as to ask her about her pregnancy, Thankfully, she is not offended at all and shares her protected feelings. That’s when I find out about the impending twins. That’s when I become aware that the possible negative effects of smoking pregnant are in no way among her thoughts. She simply mentions how she feels today—good or uncomfortable, as the case may be.

I leave her to her life, as she leaves me to my life.

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After all, there are things I’d rather she did not ask me, too.

If all goes well, someday she will be delivered of healthy twins and will reappear in the doorway somewhat slimmer, with stories to tell about her babies and how they are faring and how she is managing. And she will light her second cigarette.

Good bubbles make good neighbors

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

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