Empire-Waisted and Preggers

Janie feels a tap on her finger.

She is holding onto the pole on the bus, making her way home from work. A kind-looking older black man with crinkles near his eyes looks up at her. "Would you like to sit down? You're pregnant right?" Janie isn't even sure she heard him right, she just shakes her head, "No, thank you, I'm fine."

She is stunned. She wants to scream at him and retort back, "I AM NOT PREGNANT, FUCKER." But she also doesn't want to attract attention to her sodium-enhanced tummy that looks larger than normal because she is wearing an empire-waisted dress that moments before she had thought looked lovely but at present moment she now silently vows to never wear again.

In fact, she will burn this dress. She will throw out every empire-cut piece of apparel she owns.

She was fit, wasn't she? Wasn't she? Janie vows to stop eating all carbohydrates starting today.

She saw Alyssa Milano on TV the other day.

Alyssa Milano looks old.

Much like a Milano cookie, she is still sweet but slowly crumbling as though she has been sitting in a cup of milk for too long. And this makes Janie feel old. Makes her feel like she will soon look old, too.

Like a soggy cookie.

Alyssa Milano was every boy's dream back in the 80s. And now she is in her 40s. Which means Janie will also one day look like that. Sooner than she wants.

Janie looks out the window and contemplates her own appearance. She is wearing a powder foundation that is a shade too dark for her skin but she did not realize until it was already applied and she was under the work lights. Her hair is frizzy and her eyes tired. There is an enormous purple bruise on her left arm the size of an obese hamster she got from making out in the shower and playfully getting pushed against the tiles the day before.

Janie realizes she must look like a battered pregnant woman on the bus.

Janie doesn't know how this happened.

Fuck empire-waisted dresses.

Fuck salt.

An overweight woman in the seat across from her looks Janie in the eyes. Janie can feel her thoughts, "Yeah, girl, sucks to have people think you're pregnant when you're not." The woman's eyes burn through Janie's soul and newfound maternity gear.

The crinkly-eyed older man gets off the bus and Janie sits down, confused and embarrassed.

Well. Pregnant women with bruises and no wedding rings should sit, goddammit, she thinks to herself.

It starts to rain and Janie decides she will eat a large bowl of rice tonight and watch the Bachelorette because she likes torture.

Six Minute Writing Exercise

Write for 6 minutes and don't stop. See what happens. Here's my (edited) 6:

**

Lazily strumming her guitar, Layla sprawled out upon the grass, grinning to herself. She looked up at the sky, noticing a cloud shaped like a giraffe, and she brushed her long jet-black hair out of her eyes. The sun beat down on her back and she ran her fingers through the lush grass, laying her guitar to her side and letting herself sink into the soft ground.

In the distance she heard whistling and she knew it was her sister, Maribelle, playing in the open field, a kite flying high above her head. Maribelle also had dark black hair and looked like a miniature version of her older sister. She tried her hardest to play guitar like Layla, but her 5-year-old fingers would not cooperate.

"Fly with me!" Maribelle cried out.

"Mari, go play for a bit, I'll be right there, sweetie," Layla had told her little sister fifteen minutes earlier.

Layla let her eyes fall shut. 

But when she opened her eyes and called out for Maribelle, she found no one.

Maribelle was not in the field, only her kite was left, the string spilling across the grass as it fell from the sky.

****

Obituary Searching

Tess searched for the obituary.

She typed in the name, checking on this woman she had never met but felt like she knew.

Incredibly morbid, yes. But a morbid curiosity to know the stranger's fate propelled Tess forward. She had only heard stories about the woman before, but having been effected by her existence, Tess felt that knowing the woman's fate was somehow very important.

You see, she cannot ask if the woman has died.

She can only wonder.

It wasn't hard to find out who she was, Tess had known early on who she was. And she had wanted her to live but sometimes she wished she'd go away and sometimes she wished she could just ask her questions.

But Tess knew the woman had red lips. Like her. And curls. Like her.

And Tess wants to know how the story ends.

She wants to know the rest of the stranger's story. She wants to know if the woman is at peace or if she fought and healed herself and healed her torched relationships and survived against all odds and experienced a miracle.

But she cannot ask. She can only wonder.

There is no obituary.

And though Tess supposes she won't ever meet the woman, nor does she think she'd ever want to, she hopes the woman has kept fighting.