I lay next to you on my side with my head propped up on one hand and watched the late afternoon sun filter through the blinds and over your naked chest. As we lounge in bed, my eyes fix on your face but my mind is elsewhere. Absently you run your hand over my hip and graze my stomach, letting it rest for a moment before you pinched a small roll of flesh between your thumb and forefinger, gently shaking it back and forth.
“Time for you to start playing hockey again, eh?” You say, as you look disapprovingly at my stomach.
I am shocked back into the present as I slap away your hand, my brow furrowing, as I make an offhanded comment about the season starting soon, and you feeding me too well.
Later on, when I begin to think about it I become increasingly perturbed. By no means am I fat, quite the opposite really. I lean to the low end of the BMI index to the point where I’m almost underweight and sometimes feel emaciated. My housemates call me tiny to my dismay, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with my stomach. My anger flares when I think about you, and the excess weight you’re carrying that I never mention, knowing it’s a sore spot for you.
Is this all you value for me- how I look on your arm? Are you so shallow that if I gain a pound or change over time you will no longer want to be with me?
Fuck you and your third-trimester beer gut.
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