I cackled like a lunatic in the company cafeteria. It was common of me whenever I dined with the ever so fabulous Ken. As he told me the latest calamity he used theatrical nuances, and tousled small bits of frosted war hawk with manicured, polished fingertips. He tried to keep it as masculine as possible, in the name of professionalism, with an argyle vest, ascot, and saddle shoes. I imagined him in miniskirts and eyeliner sashaying to pulsating beats on Saturday nights.
“On to more important items darling…”
I nodded my head and encouraged him to proceed.
“Don’t be offended by this question hon…”
I nodded again, “Ok.”
“Are you pregnant?” He looked up at me with salacious thoughts percolating in his head.
I stroked the bump through the cotton of my maxi dress. Under a few layers the womb was barren. Instead, I was massaging the donut I had for breakfast, tea, fat, and possibly two bowls of ice-cream I made love to the night before. (The sight of me sodomizing a spoonful of ice-cream is not a pretty sight.) My husband tries to find kind little nuggets of encouragement that do more to reveal his disgust for the way I’ve been filling out. How irritating. If I can’t turn a bottle of wine up and into my mouth I will eat whatever I want. I wish I felt more responsibility or remorse for FAT Anna but I just don’t care.
“I’m not pregnant. I’m just fat.”
It was Ken’s turn to cackle.