
by Beth Kander
It isn't a maternity shirt. There's no give to it; it was never designed to accommodate this unexpected situation. The pale pink fabric is taut across her ballooning belly, its seams stretched and angled. Rounded flesh protrudes from beneath the border of the overworked shirt, skin still seeking solace past the point where the fabric ends. The shirt is so strained, so overburdened, it bears no resemblance to how it must have looked in its own infancy, hanging on a rack or folded neatly beside all its identical siblings.
It isn't a maternity shirt. There's no give to it; it was never designed to accommodate this unexpected situation. The pale pink fabric is taut across her ballooning belly, its seams stretched and angled. Rounded flesh protrudes from beneath the border of the overworked shirt, skin still seeking solace past the point where the fabric ends. The shirt is so strained, so overburdened, it bears no resemblance to how it must have looked in its own infancy, hanging on a rack or folded neatly beside all its identical siblings.
The woman wearing the tight shirt shifts, scratching the exposed
section of her belly, letting her hand linger there only momentarily before pulling
it away. Her pants are sweatpants, the waistband rolled down to allow room for
the same bulging stretch of stomach that eludes full coverage by the shirt. Below
the sweatpants, her swollen feet overfill her purple dollar store flip-flops. Above
the shirt, her hair is unapologetically magenta. Her eyeliner is thick and
charcoal.
She is sitting at the bus stop,
waiting. The bus is late because it’s always late, which means it will be
crowded. It would be nice if someone aboard might give up their seat for her,
far along as she is now. But she doubts anyone will. They rarely do. She is not
the sort of pregnant woman one yields their seat to automatically; her heavily
lined eyes are easily avoided. She knows how these things go.
When the bus pulls up to the
corner, slowing and sighing and lowering itself for her to board, she rises
unevenly from the bench. The cursive letters on the overworked shirt are
widened and elongated, pulled tight. You Know You Want Me, her
shirt reminds the other commuters as she takes her place among them.
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