The crying was giving him a splitting headache.

John wasn’t the fondest of kids, much less babies. He could tolerate them, but not in places where they’re disruptive like long flights or, in this case, the next apartment over at midnight.

It had been nonstop for almost an hour, and he was about ready to drown himself in the nearest body of water, the toilet in the bathroom a few feet away, which wouldn’t be pleasant. John figured that now was the time to complain.

As he knocked on your door, he didn’t have to wait much time for you to answer, and his frustration went out the window as you looked up at him. An exhausted single mom with eye bags darker than his and disheveled hair that showed him you didn’t have time to do your hair because the baby kept screaming. He sympathized, really.

“Well,” John said, rubbing his neck awkwardly now that he had calmed down. Now what? He wasn’t going to yell at you for doing your best.

“You could use a drink, I’d say.”