“Babe? I, um… I think I ate too much.”
“Aww, overeating on Thanksgiving? Who would’ve thought?” I chuckle, shrugging off my coat and scanning the closet for its hanger.
“No, I really mean it. I — ooough —“ Behind me, I can hear the bed creak as you heave yourself onto it. “I’m in so much pain right now.”
You’re lying on your back with your shirt pulled up over your chest, exposing your tummy.
I sit down on the edge of the bed next to you. “You’re massive. I’ve never seen you this round.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen me this round.” You carefully curl an arm around your gut. “I’m gonna be full until next week.”
“How much do you pack in there, love?” I move closer to you, taking your free hand and rubbing the back of it with my thumb.
Even laying down, your tummy sticks so far out from your torso it looks like you’ve swallowed a basketball. The way your stomach bulges out from underneath your ribs tells me just how stuffed you are.
“I had four plates… I think… So,” you close your eyes, “seventeen slices of turkey, way too many piles of mashed potatoes and gravy, all that stuffing your mother kept serving me-“
“Shut up. I was about to say I lost track of how many slices of pumpkin pie I had.” You lick your lips at the memory.
“Are you sure you’ll stay full until next week? Not just tomorrow?”
“Depends if you grabbed any leftovers.” You start to laugh, then wince and grab your tummy.
“Hey, hey, let me handle that.”
Your hands move back to your sides, protecting yourself from any more jostling, while I find the spots where you’re most taut. I gingerly press my fingertips all over your belly — first the crest, where it protrudes the most. I rub a gentle circle there, working out a few weak burps. Even your lower belly is firm, filled to the brim with rich foods. You’ve really outdone yourself this year, I think to myself, using my thumbs to soothe the right spot an inch below your navel.
“Holy shit, babe, what are you doing with your pants still buttoned?”
“I c- Urp! I couldn’t reach it,” you murmur.
The poor garment looks so strained, I can only imagine what it must feel like to you. I put my finger on the button with barely any pressure, and it springs open. I unzip them for you and wiggle them a little ways down your waist.
I kiss the angry red line the pants bit into your abdomen. “Does that feel any better?”
“A little.” The pressure in your gut’s been eased enough for you to start rubbing it yourself now. “Come lay down with me.”
I gladly curl into your side, resting a hand on your chest. “Happy Thanksgiving, honey.”
You clear your throat. “…Hey, babe?”
“You did grab leftovers, right?”
“Of course! Who do you think we are?”
“Did- Did you get any pie?”
“You can’t seriously be thinking about eating.”
“I mean, you freed up some space in there… But I guess if you don’t want to feed me anything else today, we can wait until tomorrow.”
“You’re crazy.” I plant a kiss on your cheek. “How big a slice do you want?”
