The munchies: part 3 (finale)

chapter 2

2.


There was this one time in April when we were walking through the city mall together. You might imagine how it looked; myself more or less standard (although maybe a little bit less lately), and Sarah, in an orange sundress, stomach swelled out after a filling lunch by the riverside buffet. Buskers sang, and tapped beats, and fiddled upon strings into the air, and salesmen and women reached half-heartedly to passers by who never stopped. Then we got stopped by one.


We happened to be crossing from one side of the mall to the other to avoid one stall, and ended up strolling straight by another. We only stopped because of what the saleswoman had said.


As we were going past, a pale arm waved out at us, as if to bar the way, in front of a signpost for some new tablet to alleviate pregnancy pains, and the sudden and intrusive: 'Hi how are you, my name's Jenna, have you got just a second to hear about the new pregnancy pain allevia-'


Then a shattering: 'Oh no I'm not pregnant,' from Sarah. We halted, standing there, holding hands, floating in a pause. We watching the saleswoman. Who drew a blank. Her eyes even widened a little.


Then Sarah went and said, 'Sorry, did you say pregnancy pain alleviation?'


The saleswoman's colleague had caught onto what was happening, and was watching half aghast, half laughing from the other side of the stall.


'Um. Yes,' said the saleswoman. She began to gesture at the products on display across the stall. 'That's right, for any organ adjustment pains or even morning sickness, especially for up to the tenth week of pr-'


Sarah cut her off, laughing: 'Oh no, I'm not pregnant.'


The saleswoman froze again. Then Sarah thought it'd be funny to say, 'I'm just fat,' and put her hands over the orange fabric of the sundress pasted tight around her paunch. 'See?' She grabbed a handful on either side, gave it a little shake.


The saleswoman had gone pale.


Trying not to laugh, I took Sarah's arm and muttered, 'Come on let's go.' As we walked away, I glanced to the saleswoman apologetically one last time, said, 'Sorry, don't worry about her, you couldn't have possibly known.'


Hand in hand, we held ourselves together until we were out of earshot, then snorting into laughter.


Looking back, I feel sorry for that saleslady. She couldn't have known. Sarah sort of feels bad about it too, but we still giggle about it.