"Hello, George. What should we do with the pies, Oliver?"
"I'll ask Sam."
The bartender pointed at a table pushed against one wall. "The bird is going over there—any time now." Oliver put three pies on the table and stashed the empty box underneath. He ordered a pint of Guinness for himself and a half for Jennifer.
"Prescribed for young mothers," he said, handing it to her and taking her coat. George stared at Jennifer's stomach.
"Due in April," she said.
"Fatherhood," Oliver said, setting the record straight and sipping his pint.
"Jesus, Oliver . . . I've been making sculptures; you've been making the real thing."
"It sort of makes itself," Jennifer said.
"Boy or girl?"
"Good question," Oliver said.