Walking down the street and an old hippie slows her car, leans out her window. “Do you need a ride?”
“No, thanks, I’m all right.”
She looks puzzled, pushes her long white hair out of her face. “Honey,” she says. “You’re about to deliver.”
“I think I’ve got a few more days,” I try to assure her. “But thanks–“
She shakes her head. “You’re going to get varicose veins if you keep walking like that!” And then she shrugs, sort of half-waves, and speeds off.
* * *