Prose that Blows Runner-Up: Least Sympathetic Inflatee


We lay in the park, drunk with ethnic motives of the planet. Musicians of all skin colours change one another. Her stomach starts growing. “How do you do that?” – I ask lightly. She shrugs and spreads hands wider on the grass, eyes locked on the stage: “Endocrinologist told me this is not dangerous”. I embrace her slowly ballooning tummy. She grows more relaxed and rounded. We smile at each other. I crawl to sit behind and around her, to support her frame – the pose is more intimate than intended, but it relaxes her even more.

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