Chapter 2 - Foreshadowing

I was just starting to kiss her when the oven timer went off. Reluctantly I let her waddle as quickly as she could get her massive body to move to pull whatever she was cooking out of the oven. He took the chance to admire her backside when she turned around; it stretched the limit of her pajama pants to the limit, wider than most couch cushions. It created a shelf that could have done double duty as a table for a palace feast as well.

He also loved seeing her go about her domestic work; she refused to modify the appliances to accommodate her size, which forced her to be very creative about how she accomplished the house chores. Like now, how she had to prop herself up on the counter with one arm as she bent over, allowing her monstrous gut to hang most of the way to the floor, swaying back and forth with a majestic deliberateness. She then used her other arm to open the oven door, careful not to let it touch any of her bloated form.

Only then did she put on oven mitts, after standing up again. I could see the strain of holding herself bent like that on her face, red and with the slightest sign of sweat. “Why don't you let me get that for you?” I knew the answer before I heard it.

“After you worked all day? No honey, you have your job, and this is mine.” That was our deal. She worked as many hours in the home as I did on the job, so we split the money I earned. She was jealous of her “hours” though; she only let me help her on weekends, when I wasn't working. It was a good system; neither of us felt like we were doing more of the work. Once more she bent over, and I could feel her panting as she held her upper body parallel to the ground, which put several hundred pounds of strain on her back.

I walked up behind her and grabbed her shoulders and pulled, hopefully taking enough weight off of her to make a difference; it certainly felt like I was pulling at least a hundred pounds, and she hadn't budged. “Hey, that's not fair.” I ignored her, and she didn't mention it again; it had to be much easier for her. She pulled a pan out of the oven, a massive pan filled with what looked like enough lasagna for a high school football team, or possibly my wife.

She straightened, and put the pan on the counter. She moved to knuckle her back, but stopped, not wanting me to think she couldn't handle it at all. I massaged the small of her back for a little, then let her return to her cooking. She glared at me, but then winked. She got out two plates, one of my normal sized ones and one of hers that looked more like a very large serving platter. She put them on top of the pan, and placed two loaves of garlic bread on there as well, so that she only had to make one trip to the already set table.

I followed her and sat down at our small dining room table. She set all the food on the table and sat down herself, in her much larger and stronger chair. She cut one of the loaves in half, giving me a half and keeping the rest for herself. She gave herself 90% of the lasagna as well, a small mountain of cheesy pasta and greasy meats, and even so, I still had a healthy portion of it. There was already a glass of wine for both of us, and the rest of the bottle within arms reach of her; she could drink enough wine to kill me without even feeling dizzy at her weight.

She dug into it with a hearty gusto reminiscent of a viking feast, except that this Valkyrie would never charge into battle, sword in hand- she'd be far more likely to knock them over with a swing of her titanic rear, or stun them with her glorious figure. I ate far more slowly, knowing that I'd be finished long before her otherwise- I preferred to relax and talk with her after I finish, instead of watching her eat after I finish long before. I'd rather watch her in between bites of my own food, and feeling more than seeing that she was eating a pound of lasagna for every forkful I pushed past my mouth.

She wasn't a glutton, in the accepted sense of the word; she didn't put her hunger above civility, and she managed a slow conversation throughout the meal. And most importantly to her, she rarely spilled more than crumbs. It had been her most important condition for gaining so much weight- that she never lose herself to gluttony. I have never and never will mind; I didn't want to lose her to gluttony either.

Eventually, we were both finished. We conversed for almost an hour, talking of nothing in particular. Our days, our friends, our families, the upcoming holiday (Thanksgiving, of course- the only day we both let her abandon herself to gluttony), and other such mundane things. I loved it, just like I love her. While nothing she said was particularly witty on its own, or profound, or sweet, or lovely, all of her words created her, and that was always my favorite.

But as all good things do, that pleasantness ended. As I got up to take my plate to the kitchen- the closest she'd let me come to doing the dishes- she spoke words that I would later find to be incredibly fateful. “Don't forget Jared, our consultation with the fertility doctor is tomorrow.” I almost froze on the spot; I had forgotten.