On Account

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

On Account​

I wrestled the button of my jeans open and watched with a sort of detached, clinical interest as I slid the zipper down and the edges opened. I didn’t feel the relief I had quite expected, given how unusually tight they had grown.

The jeans had fit perfectly well this morning, resting on my hips and allowing me to run up the zipper and fasten the button without opposition; in fact, they had sat loosely, reflecting a couple of days of wear.

When at last I had pushed back from my mother’s table after a prodigious Easter dinner, however, I became aware that the waistband that had that morning rested so comfortably around my waist was now quite un-comfortably snug. Pinching, in fact. The denim pressed firmly against my stomach; the button digging noticeably into my navel; the zipper straining at maximum pressure. How was it possible that the fabric had shrunk so much in the course of a single afternoon? Half an afternoon.

For we had returned home from church – the sanctuary brimming over, mostly with people like us who hit the services on Christmas and Easter and seldom otherwise – about twelve-thirty. My mother and sister had gone to put the finishing touches on dinner, while my brother and I had headed down to the basement where we had stayed since arriving yesterday, to change out of our suits and into T shirts and jeans.

We’d sat down about a quarter to one, and it was now – I looked blearily at the clock on the wall of the den – two-forty-five. Holy cow. We’d been sitting at the table for two hours, and I for one had been eating the whole time.

I supposed that might have had something to do with the shrinkage of the jeans.

Still, as I said. As tight as my jeans had somehow become, I had assumed that undoing them would make me feel much better.

Didn’t happen.

I tentatively pushed the waistband of my boxers slightly south.

Zip. Nada.

I prodded the now-bare surface of my belly. I was becoming acutely aware that said belly was now aching and tender and – I discovered – firm. As taut as a beach ball and bearing a dismaying resemblance to one.

Naturally, that was when my sister sauntered into the room.

“Pig,” she said affectionately, flopping onto the sofa.

I hiccupped. She smirked and rolled her eyes. I decided – what choice did I have? – to go with it.

“Yeah, I know. Hic.” I cradled my gorged and bloated midsection, surprised that even the lightest movement was causing me distress. I had eaten so much that my skin seemed to be stretched paper-thin. I now understood the expression, “I’m so full I’m about to pop.” I was, in fact, that full, and then some. My gut felt like an overfilled water balloon, or maybe a soap bubble – impressively large, precariously fragile. I inhaled – shallowly. Just the thought of a deep breath hurt. With each breath the flap of my jeans edged farther apart, mocking me.

“You might want to think about doing those back up.” Martie nodded in the direction of my waistband. “Fanny’s coming by any minute for coffee and to catch up.”

Fanny Favreau, Martie’s best friend, still lived in Holyoke. Martie had moved to Chicopee, but the two got together five or six times a year.

At that moment, as if summoned, Fanny strolled into the den. She and Martie exchanged hugs and Fanny flopped casually onto the loveseat as she had a zillion times over the years.

“Hiya, Nick,” Fanny said, as if she’d seen me only yesterday. “Hiya, Steve.” Then she rolled her eyes. “God, what a couple of pigs.”

Instantly Steve and I made oinking noises. Fanny and Martie shook their heads.

We chatted, easily and lazily for a while. Fanny looked good. A broomstick in high school, she’d filled out and now displayed lovely and graceful curves. Her mock turtleneck clung, and a gentle swell at her navel indicated that she’d also enjoyed a hearty holiday dinner. White jeans fit snugly, showcasing a beautifully rounded bottom, and I was willing to bet that the jeans’ waistband pressed more snugly against that rosily swelling tummy than they had a few hours ago.

After a bit, Steve went off to take a nap, and Martie went back to the kitchen to help finish up before planning to go off somewhere with Fanny.

I opened my mouth to say something to Fanny – I had no idea what – and hiccupped instead. I could feel my face grow red.

“Hic. Sorry,” I mumbled.

Fanny smiled. “Nothing to be sorry about,” she said. “Good meals are meant to be enjoyed.”

“Well, I admit—hic!—I enjoyed it,” I said. “Probably too much.” I rubbed my belly as evidence. Gorged and bloated, even after the half hour or so that had passed, my midsection was still visibly swollen. I looked as though I’d swallowed a beach ball and felt contentedly logy, sated and stupid.

Then Fanny was sitting next to me on the sofa where I’d flopped down, and she was gently massaging my aching stomach. I repressed a shiver – it felt wonderful. I closed my eyes.

“Mmm.”

“That feel good?”

“Mmm.”

Fanny prudently stood up and went back to the loveseat, then pulled out a card and, flipping it over, wrote a phone number and email address on the back.

“Call me,” she said. “We can go out to dinner.”

I had just enough time to raise up slightly and tuck the card into my back pocket before Martie came back in and they went out.

I pulled the card out and looked at it. Fanny Favreau, it said, Certified Public Accountant. It listed a phone number, an email, a street address. On the back she'd scribbled a different phone number and email.

I was much too stuffed and much too sleepy for thinking, or any higher order activity. I decided I would keep the card and think about it next week, or maybe next month, whenever I had recovered.

 

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