A little something inspired by this post!
You’re perched beside me on our battered old couch. My body is curled, fetal and defenseless, into the hollow at your side. You let your head droop onto my shoulder, the crown of your hair brushing my neck in lazy, affectionate flurries, while the TV flickers something neither of us are watching.
Your left hand comes to rest on my belly. It’s embarrassingly empty, and you must feel the tension because you press the palm in deeper, then begin to trace circles. At first the arcs are feathery—almost apologetic, as though my stomach were a sleeping pet you didn’t want to jostle awake. But when I sigh happily, you’re emboldened. Your hand works in firmer, larger spirals, kneading the skin over my navel in a rhythm that makes the hollowness inside me yawn wider.
Out of nowhere, my belly lets loose a shudder. Not a polite, ignorable grumble but a deep, rolling complaint that fills the space between us with its need. Your eyes go wide in mock horror. “Wow,” you say. “is there a direwolf trapped in there? Should I be wearing chainmail?” You poke my side and I yelp, more at your words than the poke itself. I want to explain the hunger, but also to keep it to myself, as if my need could be tamed by sheer force of will.
You keep at it, the rubbing, the teasing. You say, “Can you imagine all the food that would fit in there?” Suddenly you’re narrating an imaginary menu: “A bakery’s worth of cinnamon rolls. Piping hot pizza with layers and layers of cheese. Oh my God, and fries. Truffle fries, the kind with the skin still on.” Each item you conjure seems to land inside me with a wet slosh, my stomach gurgling in eager approval.
You don’t stop, not even when my face is burning, not even when my hands flutter self-consciously over your own on my skin. You laugh, not unkindly, and I try to smile through the embarrassment, but you can tell I’m flustered.
You lean in, so close I can smell the dregs of your peppermint ChapStick and the hint of laundry detergent clinging to your hoodie. I tighten my core, willing it to stay silent, but the gurgle that follows sounds almost human in its longing. You’re delighted.
“God, you’re starving,” you say, and your voice is half sympathy, half triumph. Your hand strays a little lower, where the muscle and soft meet. “You’re adorable when you’re hungry.”
annaxmalina
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