Chapter 5: Thursday, Breakfast

The alarm clock on my phone pings, and I reach for it, noting the time: 6:35am.

My eyes are still heavy with sleep and my vision is a little blurry and I blink several times, taking in the familiar outline of my bedroom, now bathed in a dull light coming through the curtain windows despite the black-out material I’ve put up.

I lay there on my back, one leg splayed out to the side, boxers riding up a little so that the fabric draws tight around my thicker upper thigh. Somewhere during the night I’ve kicked off the comforter so that only the top sheet covers me. Part of me.

A portion of my chest is exposed, one soft breast with its faint chest hair. I’d forgotten I had taken off my shirt before falling asleep. I watch my chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of my breathing, noting the faint ripple as my heart chugs its steady beat under the soft pale skin.

I smack my lips, noting the dehydration. The thought of water is like a signal to my brain to remind me that it, too, is dehydrated and I am welcomed with a slowly onsetting headache. Thanks, body.

I close my eyes and put the palms of my hands over them, then my forehead, applying the necessary pressure to ease the pain. Time to get up. Hands still over my eyes, I kick off my top sheet and using momentum, kick once, twice before rolling to my side and make to stand up. The jackknifing motion makes me suddenly aware of the pressure across my gravid abdomen and I feel that my boxers are far too tight. Standing up and taking my hands away from my face, I lower them to ease the discomfort around my middle. As I adjust the fabric, I note an angry red line around my waist where they had settled during sleep. Just digging my fingers around the waistband felt like hard work. Had little gnomes broken into my apartment and sown them a little tighter while I slept? Because that’s certainly what it feels like, and if they have, I’ll have to watch myself and my increasing appetite, lest I want to go up another size in underwear.

I lower them a few inches further, finding a spot that still covers me but offers relief. A faint tuft of manicured brown pubic hair pokes from over the tops of the boxers and I feel like I must look like one of those 70’s porno magazine models. Though less svelte.

I grab my phone and switch the silencer off, prepared for any text that might be coming from Danielle (there were none) as I make my way into the bathroom to relieve the pressure I am now aware of in my bladder. My aim is true (thanks circumcision) and I am aware of the amber-yellow of the color in the toilet bowl. As I note this, my headache symptoms return as if to say, ‘See. You’re dehydrated. Fix this. Here is some more pain to motivate you.’ I wince as the headache pressure builds over my right eye and with my non-contact hand, I press my palm over my eye to get some relief.

Hands washed, I grab my phone from the sink counter from where I had left it and make my way into the kitchen. Oliver, true to form knows I am awake and investigates. Like a parade, we march (waddle) down the hall, across the tiled floor which feels cool on my naked feet and I begin the ritual of pouring him his breakfast. Like a furry bouncy ball, he’s on the counter, pacing back and forth around me as I reach up to open the cabinet door. As I do so, I feel the coolness of the edge of the countertop against my bare skin and flinch a little. Looking down, I still look as big as I did last evening and reach a hand down to pat the side of my torso. The skin is firm and taught as I palm my belly, squeezing fingers into my softer flesh.

Oliver purrs to distract me. ‘Hey, aren’t you forgetting someone?’

After pouring him his food and making sure his water dish is clean, I reach for my phone and turn on a podcast to reconnect with the world. Words fill the air and I feel like I have company over, as I hum to myself and bustle around the kitchen to prepare my breakfast.

Today, I feel like indulging, which I know is the opposite thing I should be doing, after last evenings expansive eating (who really needs to eat all those artesian sandwiches all at once? Have you not heard of willpower, dude?).

To remind me of my gluttony, my belly is making regular contact with kitchen top and sink surfaces, as I blunder my way around the kitchen reaching for this and that. Once again, I ask myself whether my boxers have shrunken overnight. Might this be my body sending me an, ahem, not-so-subtle-suggestion that I should perhaps cut back a little on my food portions? To have a vegan smoothie once in a while or perhaps even try fasting for breakfast with only lemon water sprinkled with cayenne pepper?

I’ve read that some people have a ‘bit of the hair of the dog that bit them’, when it comes to a cure-all for hangovers, but for me, that’s never worked. Besides, drinking the morning before work is kind of an HR nightmare, not to mention a potential DUI. Rather, I’ve always found success with a hearty breakfast to help reset the body. Sure, it may be unique to me, and yesterday’s wine indulgence was a bit of a one-off for me, but suddenly the thought of pampering myself with a large breakfast makes me giddy.

But what to have today?

Saturdays are usually the day when I do my major food shop to replenish the fridge, but I know I have enough ingredients to prepare something fancy. My mind decides on pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast and large slices of tomato, pan-seared. I think I still even have an avocado left! The thought makes my mouth fill with saliva, which reminds me to drink water as I can feel the echo of the headache returning.

I reach across the kitchen and up to one of my cabinets to fetch a drinking glass. Most of my furnishings and kitchen things are from IKEA. Each having a miserably hard Swedish name to pronounce. Things like a couch might be a ‘yagen-plutz’, or a dish set might be referred to as a ‘blaren-huren’. I dunno, all I know is my eyes like their stuff and the price seems to be always right.

‘Headache. Headache. Headache.’ My brain chants, seemingly pounding itself on the inside of my cranium to regain my attention. Grabbing the glass from the cabinet and filling it in the sink, I feel my belly graze countertop surfaces both times. Not to be deterred, I fill drain the first glass and immediately refill it. The sensation of the cool liquid fills my stomach and sates the pounding in my brain. Within minutes, I feel the headache monster quietly purr and go back asleep.

Thirst now satisfied, my stomach growls as if to say, ‘hey, don’t forget about us down here, fella.’

I look over at Oliver, who is daintily chewing his dried food without a care in the world and decide that we’ll have a couple’s breakfast.

I grab all the ingredients from the fridge and freezer (Ezekiel bread is my grain of choice and I always keep it in the freezer) and set up my breakfast station. Feeling that the mood for podcasts is over, I instead pick up my phone and thumb it over to Today’s Peppy Whatever music on Apple iTunes. It’s just good enough not to turn off and I note the time. Still on par for a lovely breakfast and time enough to collect Danielle.

I hum aloud to every chorus as I mix my wet and dry ingredients for the pancake batter, noting its consistency and aroma reminds me of…something. I feel a stir down below that has nothing to do with breakfast and I spy the rising swell from my already tight boxers. Does semen and pancake batter share similar properties, because I know the taste does. I dash the thought out of my mind and lean my body against the counter, squashing my belly but also the lump in my boxers for good measure.

Focus on food, dolt.

The toast is in the toaster, and I can smell it’s cheerfully burnt scent as I grab the room-temperature butter that I keep in a close-lid dish (sorry Oliver, no way) and bring it over it over to the stove. Lid removed and butter knife in hand, I glob a generous measure into the preheated pan and listen to that satisfying sizzle. In minutes, four palm sized pancakes are ready to be flipped. The smell of the slightly burnt butter makes my mouth water.

I’ve got another skillet warm, and the scrambled eggs go in. The aroma in the room is too much and my stomach has not stopped rumbling despite my consternations, and I butter the two slices of toast liberally and cram them into my mouth. Delicious.

The pancakes are done now, and I’ve flipped them onto a plate. Next, the bacon takes their place, 5 slices in all, each about 8 inches long and a quarter inch thick, marbled with fat. The bacon sizzles and I’m suddenly wishing there was liquid-bacon that I could always cook with. The bacon cooks quickly and I am careful to dance around the pops and sizzles of the open pan, noting I am definitely not wearing a shirt. I’ve got my tomatoes slices cut when inspiration dawns. I remove the bacon (look ma, no grease burns!) and put them next to the pancakes and give the eggs a quick stir. I grab a spoon and ladle some of the bacon grease into the eggs and mix it around. The yellow of the eggs harmonizes with the clear-brown bacon grease and the combination smells stunning.

I take the eggs off the burner and toss the tomato slices into the pan that was the former home of the bacon, which was the former home of the pancakes (hey, save a dish and one less to wash later, right?). In a few minutes, I have everything plated and set at my small kitchen table. The pans are soaking in the sink, and I walk back to the fridge and grab the carton of orange juice and give the contents a shake, agitating the extra pulp on the bottom and fill the glass I’d used previously for water. Next, I grab some syrup from the fridge and pull out a chair and take a seat.

Oliver has decided to join me at the table, and I reach over to him and stroke his back with the back of my hand, not wanting cat fur on my breakfast. He gives a hearty sniff but decides it’s not for him and sits back a ways and looks at me keenly, his tail twitching like a metronome.

“Cheers, old boy.” I say aloud as I tuck into my breakfast.

The pancakes are light and fluffy but dense enough to absorb on the maple syrup like some magical food sponge. I may or may not be addicted to this fabulous nectar from the trees. Each forkful brings with it that sugary burst which makes my tastebuds sing.

Next, I fork a few bites of egg and search for my toast to ladle them onto, but remember I’ve already consumed them. Not to be deterred, I grab one of my bacon strips, which is stiff enough to act like toast and, smiling at my cleverness, take a satisfying bite.

The saltiness and crunch of the bacon is a nice cushion for the soft bacon/butter-soaked eggs and I’m careful to catch the extra grease that starts to roll off my lip and down my chin. Careful, don’t be a pig. You’ve got plenty of time to make it into the shower and pick up Danielle.

On the table, I reach for the pepper and salt shakers and add liberal amounts to my tomatoes that look the shape and thickness of hamburger patties. These, I eat alone, noting the simplicity of what salt and pepper can do to the lowly tomato. Heaven.

I get a ping on my phone, followed by several more pings and know that they’ll be from Danielle.

Not to be deterred from my breakfast, I cut, fork, spoon and finger all the bits of my breakfast into my mouth and use the final bit of pancake to act as a bready sponge to grab the leftover essence and wash it down with the remnants of my orange juice.

Oliver, who has been carefully watching this gluttonous conquest looks at me as if waiting to see if I will burst like a balloon. I push myself away from the table an inch or two and note the density of my breakfast and feel it’s effects already. The upper portion of my belly, where the stomach resides, has ballooned forward adding to the gravid appearance of my stomach. I make to stand, and Oliver’s eyes follow me. Not accusingly, but more of a look that reads, ‘wow, buddy. You ate all of that and can still get up? Wow.’

I check the phone as I unload my dishes in the sink and make to do a quick wash up. Danielle needs to leave a few minutes early (shocker), and can I be ready.

I smile at the text, and today, am glad to be male. Nothing against women, but when we need to get ready, it takes us only a few minutes.

Dishes washed, I dry my hands and pick up my phone and fire off a quick reply with a ‘thumbs up’ emoji and make for the bathroom, Oliver in toe.

Passing my bedroom on the way, I strip off my boxers, making to grab the socks and shirt from my bedroom floor from the evening prior that seem to have marched themselves nearer to the door for my benefit. Bending down is tougher with a hungry-man-sized breakfast inside you and I note my paunch fold over my waist and press into the tops of my thighs as I reach once, twice, three times for my discarded clothing, nearly dropping the boxers in the process.

I let out an audible ‘oof’ and give my side a gentle pat, noting the fuller sound it makes and head for the shower, feeling my body wobble and sway with every step. I reach into the shower to set the temperature, waiting for the water to do its thing before I hop inside for the fastest, yet comprehensive cleanse, shampoo, body wash and rinse I can muster. Minutes later (not bragging), I am out of the shower and as I pat myself dry with the towel, I note that as I try to wrap it around my middle, there’s less of the tail to tuck in.

‘It’s got to be the breakfast’, I say aloud, as I make my way into my bedroom and begin fiddling with which clothes to wear.

The choice is made simple. I am a creature of habit when it comes to work clothes and have everything in my closet ready Monday through Friday. Today’s Thursday, meaning it’s the blue-white button down with yellow patterned tie, dark blue slacks with black belt and shoes. Socks will be blue with textured patterns of little boats. Done.

I open my dresser drawer and grab the socks, boxers and undershirt and sit on my bed. The effort of reaching over to put on my socks is real, as I feel my belly crease with pressure it will not yield to, when I reach for my left foot. I struggle with the right before getting the boxers ready and put my legs through. They make their way past my knees with ease, but run into a log jam at my thighs and I frown.

I try again, but they won’t budge. ‘Now, what the hell?’

I make to shimmy them off my lower body and check the tag, Large.

Hmm.

I reach for my towel, making to fully dry myself off and instead go back to the drawer and reach for another pair, that has more of an elastic weave, also a Large.

This time, success as I pass my thighs and backside. The waistband does feel a little snug and I walk over to the mirror against the wall and turn side profile. A bulbous belly greets me as I reach hands up to touch myself. ‘God, I look enormous.’

I pivot and twist, noting the rolls of back fat with their deepening creases and pinch and squeeze, feeling there is more plush than I remember. Has that crease always been that deep? I think as I reach to twist my body this way and that, noting the prominent upper back fat roll that resides there. I roll it between thumb and forefinger, noting the density and warmth.

My phone pings again, but I’m still in the throes of taking in my physique. Apparently, I’ve been lollygagging for too long, as the phone suddenly rings.

I see the name and note the time. Shit.

“Hey Danielle. No, I know. Yes. Yes. Okay.”

Fuck.

I hastily grab my undershirt and put it on, noting that I no longer feel ‘athletically cool’ as the fabric protests. I feel like a sausage. There’s no time to change or find a slightly stretched out one and I bless my forward thinking about my pre-selected office attire and, in minutes I am ready, messenger bag in hand.

I sweep around my small apartment, checking kitchen and bedroom once more and mentally check in.

Buttons buttoned? Check.

Fly up? Check.

Belt on? Snug…but check.

Shoes on? Check.

Deodorant?

In my hasty phone call with Danielle, I’m not sure if I applied any. I’m not really a smelly guy, but I’d rather be equipped. But, not having the time to undress and apply, I instead dash into my bedroom and grab the stick and chuck it into my messenger bag. ‘I’ll just apply it when I get to work in the bathroom.’ I say to myself.

Satisfied that I have not forgotten anything and am mostly ready for the working day, I make my way down the hallway. Oliver does his best to leg-tackle me and put me out of commission today, but I will not be deterred. My shin bumps his rump as I do a sort of off-balance leap and I hear his prostrations complete with growly “Marrrrowl” and offer a consolatory, “Sorry buddy!” as I slam the door and make my way down the stairs, two at a time and out to the parking lot.

I walk-shuffle across the blacktop, noting the large cracks in the asphalt and side-step and hop to and froe as I make my way to the car. Danielle is already there and has a slightly pursed look on her face. I reach into my pocket, noting my hand doesn’t quite fit in all the way and the material doesn’t yield as it should as I fish out my key fob and unlock the car.

She raises one eyebrow, one of her many signature looks and chides, “morning.” And settles herself in.

“Hiya,” I reply before she has time to close her door. I note the breakfast-y smell on my breath and remember I’d forgotten to clean my teeth.

I hastily open the driver door and remove my messenger bag as I plonk my backside into the cool seat and tuck the bag behind my chair. The effect nearly untucks my shirt, which was already in danger of showing the world my belly as I waggle myself in and click the seatbelt into place.

We pull out slowly of the parking lot and Danielle’s already got the radio going. Energetic music spills out of the speaker as she says, “had a late night?”

“Erm, not really?” I say, the uptick on my answer.

“Hmm.” Is all Danielle can say.

“Well, I’ve made you this. I figured, well. You know.” She reaches into her day bag and extracts a foil-wrapped package. The aroma tells my brain it’s a breakfast burrito.

“Thanks.” I say, as she begins to unwrap it and hands it over.

My stomach grumbles but not in protest and, even though I am not remotely hungry, I have never been one to say no to food, especially when that food is prepared by your boss.

I take the first bite, then the second. Of course, it’s amazing. “Oh my god, Danielle. How do you do this every time?” I hold up the burrito and make a politely puzzled face. I am putting it on a little for her benefit, trying to thaw out the slight frigidity in the car from me being a few minutes late.

“I got the recipe from Bobby Flay’s website. He does this really amazing thing with chipotle and…”

I smile and nod in all the right places, as she explains the recipe. Her tone is gradually warming the more we talk about food, and soon my morning tardiness is forgotten. As we speed towards work (we caught nearly every green light, thank you very much) we’re laughing hysterically now, reliving yesterday evening’s episode on the HGTV channel with Chip and Joanna.

We arrive and park and make our way energetically across the parking lot towards the building. As I hold open the door for Danielle, my messenger bag swings across my middle at the same time she passes by me. The reduced space causes her elbow to sink into my bag, which sinks into my middle.

“Oh, gosh, sorry Theo.” She says, first backing up then adjusting her own bags as we finally manage to get through the door and into the building.
“My fault, the bag strap keeps sliding down my shoulder.” I say, shrugging it up again.
We make towards the elevator, but my mind still lingers on the impact my bag had on my belly. Was it my imagination, or was this becoming a trend of my belly bumping and scraping into things…