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I’m two sips into a latte that’s about seventy percent foam and three pages into a paperback I’ve already read twice when my phone buzzes on the coffee shop table.

Wes:Where do we keep the thermometer that works?

It takes me a second.

Me:We? Bold word choice for someone who’s currently parenting solo. It’s my day off, Wesley.

Wes:You reorganized my entire kitchen. That makes this your fault.

Me:Top shelf, blue box.

Wes:Thanks.

Me:You’re welcome. Is Rosie sick? You got man-flu again?

I grin and lean back, the sun warm on my arms, and the distant hiss of the espresso machine provides a sort of meditative white noise.

Wes:We’re both fine. She just feels warm and tried to use the dog bowl as a foot spa.

Me:So… just a typical Tuesday?

Wes:It’s Saturday.

Me:Exactly. I’m glad you noticed. My day off.

Another beat. Then a picture comes through of Rosie on the floor, smiling up at the camera. Milo is wearing her bib.

Me:Well, that’s emotional blackmail. Hey, Rosie Posie.

Wes:She’s going down for a nap. We’re both tired after listening to your podcast.

I nearly snort my latte.

Me:Excuse me? You’re listening on your own now?

Wes:Lena, it’s like crack.

Me:Right? What’s the episode about? I haven’t listened this week.

Wes:Sex club. Wristbands. Mood lighting. Lots of rules. Very efficient, actually.

Me:Thinking of going?

Wes:That’s more Julian’s thing.

Me:Really?

Wes:You have no idea of him.

I laugh loud enough to get a glance from the guy at the next table. I wave an apology and sip more foam.

Me:What do the wristbands mean?

Wes:Green for yes. Yellow for maybe. Red for “don’t even look at me.”

Me:So… you’re a red?

Wes:Very funny, coming from someone who argues with gravity.