Chapter 3: Arrival

It was the jostle of the train slowing down that brought Natasha out of her reverie.

Eyes snapping open, she suddenly felt aware that all eyes of the train passengers were on her, though they weren’t. She could feel her heart thumping loudly against her chest, which was now beginning its decrescendo to normal rhythm. Her skin felt warm, and she could feel the beginnings of sweat accumulate at her chest and armpits. Looking down, she saw one hand was nestled low on her lap, had it been inching towards her sex?

Looking back, she had forgotten all about that memory the following day, focused on her exams (which she passed). She had thought she had an accident in her bed and had been mortified to bring it up to Kristen and so she didn’t. If Kristen suspected anything, she didn’t let on and the girls went on about business as usual. However, many months later, Natasha began to have conflicting slivers of that dream return to her. But did she imagine the whole thing? Did she herself imagine Kristen advancing on her, or had she merely wished that it had happened, and she had self-explored only?

She brought her knees together and squeezed, feeling the moistness and was now aware of that low hum of electricity that stirred deep within her core. She closed her eyes again and bit her lip softly trying to will the sensation away, though a soft moan escaped her lips, betraying her.

“You going to eat that?” said a voice next to her, nearly making her jump in fright.

“Ah-what!?” said Natasha, startled.

“I was asking whether you were going to finish that.”

It was the man from the window seat whom she had shared this entirely silent train ride. He’d been asleep when she boarded the train all those hours ago. He was now pointing to the remainder of her lunch: one unopened sandwich packet. His expression was hopeful.

“Sure. It’s roast beef.”

“Cheers,” he said as Natasha offered the man the sandwich. He’d offered to pay her some money, but she politely declined.

Natasha sat up a little straighter in her seat and gathered up some of her things in hopes of further distracting her now less-wondering mind. She was ahead in the editing process of her most recent manuscript and chose to review her last few pages of what she had written down. This welcome distraction allowed her to melt back into reality. She began to take in the sights, sounds and smells of the train as if she had just gotten on it for the first time.

Taking a sip of her coffee, which was now cool, she packed up the remnants of her salad and sandwich wrapper. The pair of Pumpkin Pasties sat in their unopened wrapper, and she looked down upon them. Natasha had a sudden urge to offer them to the man who was obviously hungry. He was pushing the last corner of the sandwich into his mouth and was chewing like a man who would have liked another, if one was made available.

Natasha felt a little tingle in her body when she touched the wrapper and a small voice in her head said that she should keep them for herself. She swept them into her purse and continued to look at the newly developing countryside.

Fields and mountains were being replaced with cultivated farmlands and farmhouses. The solitary houses that were distantly sparse became small clusters, then taller ones, then buildings.

Natasha saw easy country living that reminded her of the Amish. She saw some cars and trucks that looked very dated as well as horse drawn carriages laden with what looked like produce and small livestock.

The train was beginning to slow down giving Natasha more time to observe the world outside when and a ping on the overhead speaker informed the travelers that they would be arriving early and to safely check all overhead storage bins for shifting luggage.

Natasha traveled light, one small hold all for her clothes (she was a notoriously efficient packer), her purse and a sturdy tote with all her work was all she brought with her. In one of the final emails she’d exchanged with Kristen, she had been told her not to worry about packing for extreme weather changes at this time of year.

The train chugged into the station which looked well maintained and welcoming. Natasha observed through the window gatherings of people waiting on the platform. Natasha took in their eager faces, no doubt collecting families or friends who, like her, were here vacationing or returning home.
She stood up, dusting a few crumbs off her clothes and adjusted her travel jacket which hung slightly snug across her middle. She gathered her belongings and joined the cue in the aisles who were making ready to depart the train.

Natasha’s life primarily consisted of her work, light exercise and more work. And the occasional boyfriend. Her dedication to her writers, editing team and employers meant steady hours in front of a computer screen, hunched over until literally a bathroom break or hunger pangs washed over her.

During her first few years in the company, she was more active, not to mention younger. She could take advantage of her peppy metabolism by making relaxed food choices and dismissing physical activity entirely for weeks at a time.

Then, about six months ago, she got a shocking realization that she needed to change her ways.

One evening, the company was hosting a publishing gala of a new well-known author who was being added to their team as well as some mid-level promotions. To the rest of the staff, it meant free booze and a chance to dress up and rub shoulders with some other notables who always seemed to find their way into these parties. City life just seemed to run like that.

Natasha had a plus-one, a man she’d met online through a popular dating app. They had met a few times and she felt comfortable bringing him along to her event.

That morning, she’d laid out the green dress that she always wore, a strapless number with a tasteful bodice and detailed stitch work that, new, would have cost her three months’ apartment rent. Thank you, Thrifty Consignment App! She’d found the dress being sold on an app and paid a fraction of the price.

Natasha had been busy that day and felt a glass of wine was in order. She poured herself a glass from the boxed wine she kept in her fridge and continued wrapping up the afternoon’s workday of phone calls, scattered emails, skipped spin class session, a second glass of wine and turning in a second draft of an edited manuscript. Satisfied with her work, she dragged herself to the bathroom for a shower, wine glass in hand.

Peeling off her overly large shirt and male boxer shorts left from a past boyfriend, Natasha turned on the showerhead, pulled out the hair tie of her topknot, waited the prerequisite 30 seconds for the water to go from ice cold to volcano hot, then back to a normal temperature (thanks terrible building plumbing!) and stepped inside the shower.

She had found that if she didn’t exercise and wasn’t overly active at work or home, that she could skip a day between showering. Not her favorite thing, but she was one of those fortunate people who didn’t smell badly if a shower was missed; and this habit was a definite timesaver. Thinking back to her evening ahead, she stepped under the water and felt the last two days of city life washing away. She tended to her hair with her favorite shampoo and conditioner, then lathered and scrubbed and raised an arm overhead, tipping her face out of the water to see more clearly.

Confirming her armpits needed gentle attention, she grabbed her fashionably amazing razor and set to work on underarms, legs and bikini area.

Refreshed, she fluff-dried her hair and put it up loosely and grabbed a second towel, draping it across her body. A freshly laundered towel was simply the best. She was dry in seconds.

Tip-toing across her bedroom, she opened the drawer and selected her nicest strapless bra and matching bottoms. Nothing that showed lines. She slid them on like a second skin and set to work on her makeup and flicked on her favorite playlist from her iPhone.

Checking she still had time, she did her hair, made a light snack and answered a few texts from co-workers who would be attending the party as well as her male plus-one.

“Going to be a bitching party, who’s ready to get $hit-faced?” came one of the many group texts.

“Hope we get rooftop access like last time!” came another.

Smiling, she thumbed through a few more lines, commenting here and there; always careful to acknowledge, but never commit to any documented wrongdoing. Promotions came scarcely at this job, after all and a compromising screenshot was all it took to get passed over.

She had about 30 minutes before having to catch a cab to meet her date. Natasha grabbed the dress which was hanging off the back of her closet door. Taking it out of its dry cleaning bag, she smoothed it out feeling the coolness of the silky-smooth fabric.

Natasha slid the zip down and slid herself inside. She hitched it up and reached around to the clasp just below her armpit to secure the two ends. The gap was about a half-inch short. She tried again, and again.

She let out a light huff and felt her bangs flutter. She decided on swapping bras, this time selecting a slimmer, though less comfortable one. After it’s failure, she tried no bra at all.

“Fuck, fuuuck,” she said to the room at large, searching for her spanks. She looked high and low through drawers and under folded clothes. The top of her dress fell down in her haste to search her apartment making Natasha resemble a half-peeled banana. Spanks, those magical bodice-hugging underclothes that packs a woman into the tightest of spaces. But she’d loaned them out to another friend just the other day and had no back up.

Natasha thought that if she forwent the clasp, she could at least get the zipper to hold. It was one of those expensive dresses where the zipper held fast like an industrial magnet. The upper clasp was mostly for show, anyway.

Looking at her phone, she was running short on time. Refusing to panic, she took a deep breath in, let out as much air as she could and tugged at the zip. She got a third of the way up. Trying again, half-way. The final time she pulled, she felt she heard ripping and stopped. The dress was too small.

“What the hell, man!” she cried out to the room.

The empty room sneered back, silent but she felt, judgingly.

She stepped out the of the dress, wanting to throw it, but deciding it was an expensive risk if she did any more damage to it.
She stood in her full-length mirror searching for answers.

A beautiful, though flustered set of rich brown eyes stared back. A perky nose complimented a now- slight frown that tapered to a feminine chin and a slender neck rounded out the remainder of her facial features. Her eyes scanned beyond the face and next took in athletic, though not broad shoulders followed by a small, but healthy bust. The coolness of the room had pin-pricked each nipple which was surrounded by a set of areolae that every man she’d ever been with found incredibly desirable.

Her eyes moved laterally to the slightly fluffier sides of her torso, and she felt her mouth frown. She pressed her arms to her sides and felt herself go soft where normally the inner portions of her arms felt muscle and rib. Eyes still travelling down, she saw wider hips which were digging into her underwear and at her middle, not a pooch, but a veritable ‘pot belly’.

Natasha had never been ‘abdominals ripped’, but she always had those two contour lines that you see in modelling magazines. How long had they been absent on her? Her eyes flicked towards her Peloton which was taking up current residence as her spare clothes rack. She felt it mock her beneath the green dress that now lay over it.

She turned side profile and saw the problem: she was carrying a food baby, several months along. She gave a gentle hop on the balls of her feet and her lower belly gave a little jiggle, confirming that it was truly a part of her and not some figment of her imagination.

Turning front profile again, she brought both hands to her sides and pinched and squeezed, feeling doughy love handles above her hips and squashing her middle together as if hoping her efforts would smooth everything back into place.

To confirm her suspicions, she kid-stomped to the bathroom to step on the scale. It was always a few pounds off and so she picked the part of her bathroom floor that was always kindest to her.

The scale rolled past the typical 127 and rested on a defeating 139.4.

Searching for something to blame, her eyes fell to the wine glass on the edge of the bathroom shelf.

“Well, I hope your happy,” she shouted.

The glass of wine replied by letting a droplet of condensation cascade down its side as if to say, ‘well, no one told you to drink me.’

Natasha went to her closet and found another dress, a purple one which was not as shimmery, not as silk-smooth, but definitely roomier and threw it over her head. It fit, but barely. She stood in front of the mirror and twirled to see how she looked in different angles of light. The dress without any defining tailoring hung flat across her torso, making her swollen abdomen the focal point. She needed a fashion distraction.

“Damn,” she huffed, searching—and finding— a broad, shimmering belt that could share the spotlight around her middle.

Natasha looked at herself in the mirror once again, this time triumphant. She smirked sideways and, raising her hands in moral victory, walked back into the bathroom. She grabbed the wine, slid the scale back into place with a toe and drained the glass.

She toasted herself in the mirror, applied her favorite crimson lipstick, blotted herself with a tissue and gathered her purse and shoes, determined that, even though she was looking her second-best; that she was going to have a first-class evening.