The woman poured more wine and the man said, "Whoa, you're getting ahead of me." She got out spinach dip and Triscuits and said, "Then I'll eat. That’ll slow me down.”
The baby lay on the floor, facing the Elmo toy. The baby didn't crawl for the toy like their first one had. She only blinked and drooled.
"You’re just not a striver, Pork Chop," the man said to the baby.
Every now and then, demons or witches or princesses tromped up the porch steps and the man held out the plastic pumpkin and watched their grubby hands.
“I’d like to chase them away is what I’d like to do,” he said to the woman.
The woman had lost weight. She was tired and slack-jawed and she wasn't making milk and now, her baby wasn’t a striver.
"Don't you love her little nose, though? It's just a dot on her face. It's like those cartoons."
"No, it’s not,” the man said. “The cartoons don't have noses."
The woman sipped her wine and wondered if they were thinking of different cartoons. The Triscuits were gone. She scooped dip with her fingers. She brought the bowl to her face and licked.
Later, at the Bar: A Novel in Stories