Full. Oh, so full. So completely overstuffed with pies, cakes, cookies, and ice cream. There's no room left, your stomach is so horribly packed tight you're surprised the skin hasn't torn. It itches, though, as if it's stretched to the limit. Maybe it is. The colossal balloon sticking out as much sideways as it bows out forwards. Pushing away from your pudgy body as though wanting to avoid another feast. Just like you do. And you would, too, if you could move anything but your mouth.
You aren't strapped to the leather arm chair, but you may as well be. Leaning back into the cushions, you're pinned under the hefty weight of your belly. After
3:02 a.m.
I woke up slowly and groggily, in the sort of half-dreaming way that you do sometimes. There were a few disoriented moments in the dark, as my mind sorted reality from dreams, before I knew where I was. You were asleep, curled up next to me with your arm over my midriff, your hand resting on my belly underneath the sheets, making me feel safe.
My stomach gurgled urgently, and I realised that I was incredibly hungry. I looked over at the clock and saw it was 3 a.m. I usually sleep soundly, but hunger always manages to get my attention over any kind of sleep. It wasn't as if I had gone to bed hungry. The leftover serving bowl on the