The munchies: part 3 (finale)

chapter 11

10.

Turned out he was a total dick about it. Sorta funny, in retrospect.

So far he'd taken Sarah's measurements, interrogated her lifestyle, taken a tongue swab, all with a professional attitude acquired from years in practice despite this frankly disappointing leap in the numbers symbolizing her weight and size. Not to mention raw visual evidence. But he hadn't reacted. Surely we could get a rise out of him, somehow. I sat awkwardly, trying to contain the threat of stiffness as Sarah, shirt ridden up deliberately, stepped especially hard off the scale, gut flailing around in poor Doctor Tang's face. She waltzed across the room, took her seat beside me, pretended to be unaware of her navel peaking out under her shirt, flattened by the blubber surrounding it.

Apparently aloof, Doctor Tang was consulting a clip board, glancing at sheets, scribbling very professionally with a pen now and then. He lowered the clipboard onto his lap, looked up at them from over his asian spectacles, gave Sarah a once-over. Chewed his lip in concern. 'Looks like you're pregnant.'

Our hearts seized.

I went sort of cold.

Was I in shock? Shame? Happiness? Did I know what to feel? Was this real?

Sarah took a shaky breath. Swallowed. Managed, finally, to say, "I'm pregnant!?"

'No,' Doctor Tang proceeded to say. 'It just it just looks like you are.'

It took us a moment.

But then I got it. And then Sarah got it. I tried not to laugh. I don't know what Sarah did.

Either way, we wrapped up the appointment, filed out the exit, paid the receptionist the bill, left the doctor's complex. Once we'd gotten inside the car, we broke out laughing.

Sarah snorted. '"Looks like you're pregnant" he said!'

I shook my head.

'If only he knew how fucking turned on that makes me.'

I put on a mock straight face. 'Fat biiitch.'

She showed me down with a stare. 'Oh yeah? Prove it.'

'Done.' I reached over and gave her stomach a hearty slap, the hefty thing jiggling under her shirt. She bit her lip as I seized a thick roll of it in my hand and shook, the rest of her body sent wobbling about. 'Not to mention,' I added, 'what he read on that scale.'

'Yeah,' she said. 'Hundred and seventeen.'

'Four up from last time. Really, I dunno how this car holds you up any more.'

'Come off it,' she retorted. 'Look at yourself why don't you?'

I didn't. Instead I started the car, and cruised home, stealing glimpses at Sarah every time I saw a pothole or bump approaching on the road - made extra sure to drive over them to get her belly jiggling free of her shirt.

'Stop that,' she kept saying, constantly trying to tug her shirt back down. 'My belly's getting cold.' So I'd only ruin it again by going over more bumps and holes, her shirt pushed up little by little with every bounce of her gut. By the time we got home, she'd given up entirely. As we pulled into the driveway, she huffed angrily at me, pulled her shirt all the way up, grabbed the sides of her belly and shook it, asking, 'This what you want? Huh? You like this now? Huh?'

I gave her belly a pat, opened the car door. 'You bet it is,' I said.

Then we were straight into the bedroom, once again, getting ourselves into all different positions, finishing each other off so many times it started to ache.