Angel
I
I felt his lips warm and gentle pecking their way across the soft, pale flesh of my stomach.
This time was different. As his lips made their way slowly towards mine, I knew this wouldn’t end how it usually had just a week ago. My stomach was more than just a body part, a stretch of smooth skin against my small frame; it held something more now. It held something more than just food and bile; it held more than just what one thinks.
He smiled at me from his place hovering over my form, pecking my lips and cupping my cheek in his hand, nuzzling his nose against my own. I smiled back, wrapping my arms around his neck, eyes bright and adoring.
So technically, it wasn’t my stomach that had changed, but one always seems to say that. That the precious cargo is lying in that vile internal organ, where acid burns away everything that happens to fall into it. So, okay, no, the change was not in my stomach, but it’s home was close. Very close indeed.
I let his sweet mouth invade my own, felt his hands still placed flat on my exposed stomach, rubbing sweetly, caringly.
Massaging the stomach can help stimulate development and growth. We had read it another one of those books, those books that had been mailed across the country, across the world, the second our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles had became aware of this change.
We lay together, myself spread horizontally over the bed, feet dangling off the edge and eyes glued to the ceiling, tracing the swirling designs and letting them mold my thoughts. He lay snoring gently, face against my stomach. The warm steady breaths sent shivers up my spine each time they caressed my cold skin, and my fingers ran themselves through his hair from sheer habit and familiarity. I breathed in and out, feeling my diaphragm expand and contract, seeing the movement of his baby face in sync with my breaths. I felt the change react to each breath, to each movement. The soft mumbling of his sleeper’s tongue was the only sound in the air, lips moving against my skin, talking to no one and everyone. I watched the ceiling, watched him, watched the ceiling.
I was content. I was scared. I was happy. I was worried.
The small nudge coming from inside of me brought my heart to a stuttering stop, before the nuzzling of his nose into my skin started it up again.
I traced my hipbones, pretending to feel the bump that would appear in the months ahead.
This time was different. As his lips made their way slowly towards mine, I knew this wouldn’t end how it usually had just a week ago. My stomach was more than just a body part, a stretch of smooth skin against my small frame; it held something more now. It held something more than just food and bile; it held more than just what one thinks.
He smiled at me from his place hovering over my form, pecking my lips and cupping my cheek in his hand, nuzzling his nose against my own. I smiled back, wrapping my arms around his neck, eyes bright and adoring.
So technically, it wasn’t my stomach that had changed, but one always seems to say that. That the precious cargo is lying in that vile internal organ, where acid burns away everything that happens to fall into it. So, okay, no, the change was not in my stomach, but it’s home was close. Very close indeed.
I let his sweet mouth invade my own, felt his hands still placed flat on my exposed stomach, rubbing sweetly, caringly.
Massaging the stomach can help stimulate development and growth. We had read it another one of those books, those books that had been mailed across the country, across the world, the second our parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles had became aware of this change.
We lay together, myself spread horizontally over the bed, feet dangling off the edge and eyes glued to the ceiling, tracing the swirling designs and letting them mold my thoughts. He lay snoring gently, face against my stomach. The warm steady breaths sent shivers up my spine each time they caressed my cold skin, and my fingers ran themselves through his hair from sheer habit and familiarity. I breathed in and out, feeling my diaphragm expand and contract, seeing the movement of his baby face in sync with my breaths. I felt the change react to each breath, to each movement. The soft mumbling of his sleeper’s tongue was the only sound in the air, lips moving against my skin, talking to no one and everyone. I watched the ceiling, watched him, watched the ceiling.
I was content. I was scared. I was happy. I was worried.
The small nudge coming from inside of me brought my heart to a stuttering stop, before the nuzzling of his nose into my skin started it up again.
I traced my hipbones, pretending to feel the bump that would appear in the months ahead.