raven and crow grow
You have two wardrobes, Crow. I know when I spot you walking across the station concourse that a particular jacket means you have recently hunted. Not only hunted, but gorged yourself. It’s the only explanation for how much weight you put on.
We nod to one another. Nothing more, not here. Truth is I haven’t had the courage to call you since that evening after Euphoria.
But as you patiently wait for the train, I steal glances. Apparently you had a busy weekend. Your jacket falls open over a belly that wasn’t there last Friday; just a little extra curve out from your solar plexus. Your jeans look new, and probably a size or two up, judging from how your thighs look a little heavier.
It suits you. You even walk different. Kind of rolling your hips a little more.
Your shoulders look broader and your face perhaps a touch softer. And your belly… I look away when you glance at me but keep thinking about it. Not sagging like a beer belly. Just more of you, extra weight moulded to the shape already there.
I know that in a few days, somehow, you’ll select the dark blue jacket again. Whoever you are currently entertaining will be gone, burned away, and you’ll fit into your old clothes. Or maybe you’ll find someone else. Maybe you’ll have to buy a third jacket, another pair of jeans: stretch-fit comfort for the broader gentleman.
I take out my phone and start composing a message to you for the hundredth time.
Elsewhere, elsewhen, you grin and tear open the wrapping on the parcel I handed you. A cute minidress in navy blue spills out. You hold it up and look it over.
“Where the fuck did you find another one of these?” you squeak excitedly.
I smile, overjoyed with your reaction. “Ebay. Complete fluke. Been looking ever since we had to cut you out of the last one.”
You spin it around and lay it across your body. I chose my moment well: you have yet to dress after your shower, so I get to watch the soft fabric caress every curve. You smooth it down over your belly, moulding it to the swell of your breasts. “She was soooo big. I thought I was going to explode.”
“You’re bigger now,” I observe, settling down onto the bed and looking up as you twirl to inspect yourself in your body-length mirror.
“Not big enough for this. You got a larger size?”
I grin. “I think it’s time we acknowledge that you’re not going to lose the weight. You’ve been getting bigger again.” The sight of your blush melts something inside me. “Rey, you’re… more of you is a wonderful thing. You’re perfect. You don’t need to get rid of Amelie.”
For just a fraction of a second I see the look of miscomprehension at the name, before you remember. I draw in a short, sharp breath: when you first came home carrying her around your middle you were distraught like I’ve seldom seen you. But now you scarcely remember her, though you remember a favourite dress from ages ago. It makes me wonder if one day you will misremember me, once I’ve gone that same path. The flutter in my heart causes you to give me a puzzled glance.
“Just thinking about how big you could get,” I murmur.
A shy smile brightens your face. It broadens as you turn back to the mirror and scrutinise your reflection. Between thumb and index finger you pluck the hem of the dress and pull it out to show the extra inches you need to gain before it fits snugly. And then, when it does, you’ll find some other fat beauty, seduce or steal her away, and cram her down inside your smothering belly. We’ll cut you out of this dress and praise and worship the new fat she sacrifices to you.
I’ve already ordered a dress the next size up.