I sit up in bed and stare in jealousy at my dozing girlfriend and content son. They say you should sleep when the baby sleeps, so I ought to be taking advantage of the silence. But my head has other plans, starting with an obsession about stepping outside the front door. I wouldn't even leave. I just want to see what it feels like to dip my toe in that freedom again. It's not like I couldn't come back inside if I needed to tend to the baby.

My feet lead me to the kitchen first for a snack, but someone already beat me to the peanut butter. I spot the empty jar on the counter. Could've been me for all I know, up earlier in the night, or Nicole. She lived on the stuff in the first months of pregnancy, but she hasn't hit it hard since.

I close the cupboard in the kitchen and shut off the stove light, the only source of illumination in the house. I'll feel my way to the front door. Don't want the light creeping through the open door of the bedroom.

I'd normally rely on the streetlight coming through the glass oval to provide a little context to the obstacles in the living room, but it's out tonight for some reason. It makes the experience of unlocking the door and stepping out onto the stoop all the more exhilarating. Just dipping my toe into that freedom gives me a rush, the blank page of night spread out before me. Even the security lights on the houses that line the street across from me are out, boosting the effect. Must be an electrical issue on that side of the street, because a glance back at the digital clock on the stove in the kitchen still shows the time.

My chest inhales deeply and takes in the fall night. The earthy aroma of decaying leaves takes me right back to autumns at the cabin, where I'd spent every fall of my life except this one. Nicole told me I should take some time and visit for a day if it would help my moodiness. She's no idiot, despite being incapacitated most of the time. She's noticed my hollow attempts to brush off accusations that I'm anything other than overjoyed at the arrival of our son. Because that's how you're supposed to act, and Nicole can hold a grudge long after those C-section scars have healed. She's testing me, seeing if I'll take a step toward leaving her. So of course I turned the offer down.

And yet here I am anyway, on the stoop, staring into the night, fantasizing about how alive I'd feel with the cool wind dancing through the open windows while I cruise some back road in my Mustang, the one with the back seat still bearing a quiet stain from when our son was conceived. No one would notice it if you didn't know it was there. The man who bought the 'stang sure didn't. I traded it in for a new stain in a compact commuter previously owned by the world's worst coffee drinker. It's not cut out for nighttime joy rides. Radio doesn't work.

I take another breath and ignore the inner critic telling me what an asshole I am to think these things. But you can't tell me every new father hasn't felt the same way at one point or another. It doesn't pay to be honest, though. Try playing the "everyone's doing it" card when the mother of your child asks why you're always up at night.

I should've married her like my dad told me. It would put that conversation to bed. But hell if I could commit like that. A baby is one thing. Marriage is another. Too much paperwork, too much bullshit, if it ends. No clean break like I could make right now.

Maybe another time.