Our eyes met for a moment, and then you said, "Get your punk ass out that seat. I'm pregnant, mother fucker."
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Your voice was like the finest melody, and so I gave you my seat, gladly, and in that moment I gave you my heart.
I never thought a wife beater could look good on a pregnant woman, especially when underneath it you wore a black bra. But baby, you made it work. The emerald green thong strap hanging over the waist of your tight beige stretch pants completed the ensemble perfectly. My metro angel.
You immediately pulled out your cell phone and started talking to someone, so I couldn't introduce myself. I don't want you to think I have no manners, after all.
I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but you mentioned going to see "your baby daddy." I saw no wedding ring, so I am assuming the romance didn't work out. Is that right? Because I want you - oh, how I burn for you, but I won't be a homewrecker.
You looked close to going into labor, and I think I heard you say "I don't know when this little mother fucker is gonna drop out, but it better be soon." Perhaps once the blessed event has occurred, we could meet for a cup of chai tea?
Let me know. And if I never hear from you, I wish you well. Please know that I will always carry the memory of you in my heart.