Chapter 1

Ethan and I moved in together after about 2 years of dating. I had got a new job, and we finally could afford a place just for ourselves. Our housemates were interesting at first, but things got increasingly complicated, and the stress started eating away at me. I was always snappy. I had lost weight. Ethan was worried. So the small 2 bedroom, 3rd floor flat in a quiet neighbourhood looked like an answer to our prayers even though my commute was long.
When I say I'd lost weight, don’t picture some delicate sylph. I’m tall, broad-framed, and was never the willowy type. Sure, I looked slimmer, but I still hovered around 145 pounds. Not toned or athletic, just skinny-fat, the kind of body that looks fine in clothes but wobbles under scrutiny. I’ve always been fine with that. Pale skin, big brown eyes, long reddish-brown hair. I know I’m not a bombshell. But I’ve got personality.
Ethan is the cute one. He had this scruffy poet look I never got tired of: lean frame, longish dark hair, ridiculously green eyes, and the most adorable smile.
After a couple of months we settled into a new rhythm. Stress was a thing of the past. My appetite came back.
It started slow, just an extra bite here and there. Ethan offered me a taste of his food: I accepted. The subway kiosk stocked locally made hand-fried crisps: I got a bag for the commute. Every day. Sometimes two bags. Yes, I’d already had a filling breakfast.
And why not have a chocolate bar on the way home... at first just on Fridays. Then on any day ending in 'y'.
At my office desk I always had snacks: salted pretzels, mixed nuts, mini chocolates. If my colleagues brought in home-made treats, I was the first to dive in, and they loved me for it.
At the midday break, I graduated from sad salads in the office canteen to the buttery quiches, pasta bakes, meat pies at the coffee shop around the corner, followed by a sugary, caffeinated drink to beat the inevitable post-lunch slump.
In the evenings, too tired to cook, Ethan often suggested a large takeaway order “to have leftovers for lunch”. We never had any leftovers.
I only really noticed how my habits affected me on the night before my birthday.
It was a Friday, and we had planned a romantic dinner in a place Ethan knew well to start a weekend of celebrations.
I took a long, warm shower, lotioned and perfumed my skin, put on my sexiest underwear. I noticed that my bum and thighs felt softer under my hands, but didn’t think much of it. And I didn't remember the lace of my panties digging into my hips before, or my boobs spilling slightly from the cups... can underwear shrink in a drawer?
I got my favourite dress out of the wardrobe: black satin, with a tulip skirt and a faux bustier bodice. I’d bought it about six months earlier at my thinnest, and it had fit like a glove.
I put it on and undeniably it was clinging to all the wrong places. It felt shorter too, like it was inching up.
I decided to zip it up and then adjusted it properly. I grabbed the slider with my fingers and pulled it. It barely budged.
I looked in the mirror: the sides of the zipper were a good inch apart. I tried to pull the bodice as tight as possible. I inhaled, held my breath, and finally managed to yank the zipper halfway up.
And the moment I exhaled, I got stuck. A few stitches gave way with a soft pop. The slider was locked in place.
Sweaty and flushed, I caught my reflection in the mirror again. This time I looked at myself, not at the dress.
Why was my belly so round?
And my thighs so plump?
Damn.
I was more annoyed than upset, and I very much wanted to go out and enjoy my birthday dinner.
“Ethan!” I called.
He appeared in seconds, already dressed in jeans, a crisp shirt, and a corduroy blazer. That's so easy for him!
He stood in the doorway, amused, green eyes twinkling.
“What’s going on, babe?”
“I think this dress has shrunk,” I said sheepishly.
He chuckled. “Yeah, that must be it.” He walked over, grinning, eyes dropping to my belly. “Can’t be this little tummy, can it? Or this.” He said, gently squeezing my rear.
“Maybe,” I forced a laugh. “But let’s think about that next week. I just want to enjoy my birthday.""And then I promise I’ll be good and get into shape.” I added half-heartedly.
"What's wrong with this shape?" he asked, so close I could feel his body heat, one hand on my butt, one gently caressing my tummy.
"Well, I'm stuck in my dress instead of going out. That's what's wrong!" I tried to call Ethan back to reality. "Please, dear, help me out of this dress. I'll suck in so you can cut it a bit here, where it's broken already."
"Sure, sure," he said, in a low voice, hands firmly on my curves.
"No. Seriously, Ethan. I know exactly what you're thinking but not now. I need to get free because we are going out."
So, liberated from my satin prison, I slipped into a stretchy column dress instead. The fabric hugged every inch of me. I grabbed a shawl to feel less exposed.
At the car, after opening the door for me, Ethan leaned in and kissed my cheek, giving my softer rear another gentle squeeze. He wasn't bothered by my changes. Maybe he even liked them. Had he noticed all along?