Chapter Text
Sometimes, it seemed cruel to Lorrie that her mornings should dissolve into this, the same bare routine. One she never asked for, really. One that, like an arranged marriage, had fallen into place for her. The young mother slid out of bed as soon as she woke up. She did so every morning, beating her alarm clock by a few minutes. But what woke and poured her full of energy was an anxious and itchy premonition residing behind the deep navel on her belly, the feeling that she had finally withered into a hag and lost what made her married and otherwise professional male coworkers drink in, with their eyes, the sensual rise and fall of the cleavage bobbing inside her dress after she’d had to rush to catch an elevator.
That morning, the house on 124 Macallan Street was dark and quiet, its peacefulness fueled her anxiety, gifting it a fountain to drink from. The air conditioning hummed somewhere above the stucco-dotted ceiling, and its cool dry air drifted all around her in a steady, weighed-down current.
Lorrie shed her nightgown, glancing into the full-length mirror nailed to the back of her bedroom door, letting the straps fall from her white goose-bumped shoulders down to her waist where the peach-colored rayon was held in place by the massive globes of her bubbly ass cheeks as they jutted out in a lovely curve beneath her lower back. Her breasts, having popped free, jiggled slightly from the sudden exposure. The milky-white mounds, capped with dark-brown nipples that were hard like walnuts from the artificial chill and now staring back at her reflection, were each weighed and lifted by her palm. The flesh felt smooth and taut; no signs of unsightly decay.
Lorrie remembered getting picked on about them once: three years ago, she and her ex-husband had been invited to a housewarming party hosted by his parents where they were unwittingly shown off to the other thirty guests and her ex-husband’s less successful siblings. She remembered the curious scent of lime and citrus that followed her down the winding stairs at the center of her in-law’s enormous home. Her ex-husband’s father had caught her there at the bottom of the stairs, blocking the hallway, a short square-shouldered man whom she never had much to talk about with. He was balding and red-faced. Beneath his gray mustache, the corner of his mouth twitched in a way that might’ve been a smile, she couldn’t tell.
She smiled at him with wifely obedience. “Ah, Mr. Heywood, quick question, did you ever suspect that the house’s architect might’ve been fond of mazes? Maybe as a kid?” The floral-themed sundress she had been wearing made a decent show of her large breasts. Her father-in-law stared at them openly, revealed as they were, like glimmering gold framed inside an open treasure chest. “Ahem,” Under his leering gaze, Lorrie lifted a hand, covering her tits using her forearm. Her eyebrows squished closer. She wanted to say “Yoo-hoo, my eyes are up here and you’re twice my age, mister,” but spared his dignity, wanting to be a well-behaved guest for her husband’s sake.
To her surprise, the older man lifted the concealing forearm away with gentle strength, baring her deep cleavage again. “Mmm mmm mmm, my son is one lucky dog,” he said, not meeting her horrified gaze. “To think only one of my grandsons has sucked the milk from these fat puppies.” He softly tapped each of her breasts with a thin wooden dowel in his hand. Both made an obscene bounce on her chest from the impact. “Must’ve been Heaven on Earth for the little brat. Give me a few more grandkids, why don’t ya?”
Two years later, Lorrie’s ex-husband called her on the day he was meant to be returning from San Francisco. He told her he met a woman on the plane and that they had a conversation that had changed his life. He said he needed time to figure things out, to figure out if he wanted to hold off on a divorce for Stephen’s sake. He’ll be a grown-up in a few years, her ex-husband said, so did it really matter? Lorrie didn’t say anything back on the other line. She was crying a little to herself with her ear pressed to the phone, wiping away the tears as soon as they came, glad that Stephen was away at school then. “Hello?” he said, “Lorrie?”
Nothing could be done.
She eased the nightgown over her shapely ass and let it fall in a heap around her feet. Standing in just her tight pair of cotton white panties, she peered critically over her shoulder at her large bubble butt which had given her trouble and embarrassment with many pairs of jeans over the years. For one year in her early twenties, in protest, she refused to wear either pants or shorts, sticking to just skirts and dresses. Her hair fell to her shoulders, long, nut-brown, and rather bushy. Her eyebrows were slightly darker, leveled, and luxuriant. Her eyebrows and hair worked to dominate her face with a central impression. Her pale complexion, as far as she could detect, was unblemished all the way down.
She inspected herself for defects, anything that could justify an unfaithful husband. When she found nothing devastating, there wasn’t relief but simply the gnawing notion that she had unfairly gotten away with something, that she had only starved off what would inevitably come roaring back for her.
Lorrie opened her closet, scowled at her ex-husband’s tweed jackets and corduroy trousers, and made a mental note to stuff them into a trash bag that she would leave abandoned inside the attic. Maybe she’d burn them. Maybe Stephen could wear them when he’s a little older and they’d mean something else to her. Either way, she had lost tolerance for her ex-husband’s leftovers and their place in her life.
That morning, she dressed in dark leggings, usually reserved for weekend yoga class. They hugged the splendid curve of her heavy round behind and felt surprisingly comfortable on her lush hips. Wearing them, still topless, she turned and shook her ass at her reflection, watching the ample flesh jiggle, smirking slyly at herself over her shoulder. “He’ll never get to play with this ass again. Never ever.” The sports bra she put on held like gauze around her obscenely large breasts, struggling to keep the massive mounds of flesh at bay. “No way my boobs have gotten bigger. This thing used to fit like a glove… oh brother. Oh, brother. Oh, brother.” She chanted in a little sing-song, planning a well-deserved shopping trip in her head.
She left her bedroom and was about to make her way downstairs to the foyer but then stopped. She glanced down the narrow hallway and remembered her teenage son. Her little baby.
When Lorrie opened the door, the drawn-out whine of its rusty hinges gave away her position and agenda. Stephen’s head lay crooked on his pillow, his neck at an awkward angle, his breathing low and inaudible from where she was standing.
On her way to his bed, she picked up scattered bits of laundry sprinkling the beige carpet, and tossed them into a lime gaming-themed hamper inside his closet. She stacked the used cups and plates drawing in ants atop his dresser. She peeled back the thick black curtains from his bedroom window, watched one of the neighbors walk their beagle down the sidewalk for a moment, and then remembered what she was in his room for.
“Stepheeeeennnnn,” She sang. “Babyyyy~” Lorrie paused, holding a cute pose with her head tilted. Stephen held still and was silent, like a corpse. There was just his shaggy haircut and fishbelly white skin underneath. Lorrie huffed through her nostrils once, her lush eyebrows flattened against her impossible hazel eyes. “Fine. You force my hand.” When Lorrie flicked the light switch, sharp light filled the room, merging with the natural lighting from the window.
Stephen stirred and then groaned into his pillow. “What?” He grumbled away from her.
“Rise and shine, hon,” Lorrie singsonged.
“Don’t make so much noise…” Stephen’s muffled voice said. Then as an afterthought, he added, “I’m not going, Mom.”
Lorrie mustered theatrical puppy eyes that Stephen couldn’t see, swaying her torso while she hugged herself. “You don’t wanna enjoy a refreshing morning jog with Mommy?” She made a face with her round pouting lips then glanced at Stephen’s black rectangular gaming console where it sat on his TV stand. When she walked over and hovered her hand above it, hot air steamed against her open palm like the vent of a portable heater. “Stephen,” Her voice became stern. “I thought we talked about this. Staying up and playing video games all night is not good for your health.” She shook her head. “Is it any wonder you’re not a morning person?”
“I wasn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“I was asleep.”
“You were asleep… and not gaming all night? Is that it?” She tapped a foot and scrutinized him with soft hazel eyes, identical to her son’s, only hers were younger-looking somehow.
“Yup.”
She let a full minute pass then turned away from him, arms folded under her breasts. When she abruptly shifted her weight onto one hip, her leggings-clad bubble butt made an unintentional wavering jiggle. “Honesty is the one thing we have going for us, Stephen.” After a pause, she added, “You can still make it up to me.”
“You’re always doing these morning jogs,” Her son mumbled. “For what?”
Dread poked at Lorrie’s belly, finding that spot behind her navel. She remembered the phone call she’d had with Stephen’s father, her crying inside the house they had furnished together. The woman he had run off with was a decade younger than her. A slender and freckled college girl, she was just a few years older than Stephen. “Exercise is good for you, Stephen,” she said immediately, her voice prickled with uncertainty.
His blanket moved higher against the cold. “Whatever. I’m still not going.”
His mother deflated a little. “You make it sound so sad. Okay. Okay. It can’t be helped. I’ll be back to take you to school. And I’ll make breakfast too. But get some sleep, Stephen, okay? I love you.” The door shut gently as if it had ushered her out.
“Always worth a shot,” Lorrie whispered to herself inside the foyer. She pulled in her earphones, readied her workout playlist, and then was out the door.