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Although we haven’t known each other for long, you invite me on a dinner date.
"Maybe that's too forward," you say, blushing a bit.
"No, not at all," I say. "I look forward to it."
I should have expected what happened as I was getting dressed. I'd not been out of tshirts or sweatpants in months, and the tshirts were size large, ones I'd gotten free at concerts and festivals. My usual mediums had started getting a bit snug and uncomfortable.
But now, with a date, that means a buttonup shirt. You'd even mentioned that, that you looked forward to seeing me in a buttonup shirt. And I didn’t want to disappoint you. But now, in front of the mirror with my roomiest blue-striped buttonup, ugh, the buttons appear to be straining around the middle. I'm getting a belly, I thought in horror. When had I gained weight? And how? I'm so upset that I don't even realize that this new bulging middle seems to have coincided with meeting and working with you -- and your bringing me brownies and cookies, offering me your leftover lunches, making sure I stayed well-hydrated with soda pop, etc.
My best dress jeans I can barely fit in I realize as I button them up. They are also fairly tight. I put on a dress belt and notice that the worn notch no longer fits, that my waistline is now two notches larger. I can only hope you don't notice, but damn, I think, looking in the mirror at my little belly, how can you not notice!
There is no time to go to the store for new clothes. I feel really awkward and I bit shy when you see me. I do my best to suck my belly i, so the buttons don’t strain so noticeably.
You don’t say anything, but I feel your eyes upon me, particularly scanning my midsection. You smile, probably suppressing a chuckle at how ridiculous I look.
When we get to the buffet, you pay since you invited me. Then, you introduce a game to the evening -- we each will try to guess what foods the other one wants, getting each other's plates but not speaking about our likes or dislikes other than through body language and yums, that sort of thing. To start with, I get you a salad with various dressings in little cups on the side. You smile appreciatively.
You choose out heavier fare for me, not what I would have chosen given how tight my jeans are right now and how strained my shirt buttons. Fried chicken, fried potatoes, fried okra, you know I have a weakness for fried foods from what I bring for lunch each day at work. And I am really hungry right now but not wanting to seem like a total pig. Besides, I really should eat healthier, I think, looking down at my new little belly. I decide to restrain myself, and our conversation goes easily, and i forget not to eat so much. I get you a plate of stirfried veggies which you seem to enjoy. Meantime, I empty the pile of fried foods you'd gotten me, lost in listening to your stories.
You're off quickly to get me another plate, and I watch your shapely bottom sway as you head back to the buffet. While you are gone, I slip my hands under the table and move my belt another notch larger. I sigh a sigh of relief which ends as I see you returning with a plate piled high and a determined look on your face. More of the same for me, some country fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn pudding, and biscuits which you've buttered rather generously. I feel like a greedy king at a gluttonous feast. But I do need to watch how much I eat. This shirt is getting tight.
Ohhhh, I think, smiling weakly at you which you apparently take as total approval. We keep talking and serving each other. You quit partway through the third plate, and I get you some cheesecake which you pick at. I finish a third calorific plate, and lean back and pat my protruding belly and sigh, signaling to you that I'm full.
But you get up again, cute swaying bottom on your way to the buffet and return with a plate fulll of desserts -- cheesecake, red velvet cake, peach cobbler, apple pie with whipped cream on top. I feel I don't want to disappoint you, so I eat most of it, finally putting down my fork and sighing a huge satisfied sigh. I feel just absolutely stuffed. I look down to see that my shirt buttons have grown incredibly strained. No wonder! "Sorry I've made such a pig of myself," I say, trying to laugh about it. You just smile.
Back at your place, we sit on the sofa and read poetry aloud to each other from a book you'd bought recently by an Irish poet. I'm enjoying this so much more than if we were watching a movie on Netflix. You get up after reading a particularly sensuous poem and go to the kitchen, returning with a carton of Death by Chocolate ice cream. I know I'd mentioned once at work that this was my favorite ice cream flavor, and you apparently overheard.
"No, I really shouldn't," I say, trying to wave you off. You say nothing but you smile and push a spoonful of creamy goodness between my lips. I feel the my shirt buttons growing painfully strained as if they’re going to pop. But I also feel I don’t want to disappoint you.
You climb up in my lap, pushing your slender body against my swollen belly. You moan a little, and I do too.
“Maybe that’s too forward,” you giggle. I can’t reply because when I open my mouth, you push another spoonful in.