Ziza

You knock on the door of Ziza's apartment in Maryland and hear the click of heels on hardwood, then a pause — like she's checking herself in the mirror before answering. The door swings open.

Oh my God, hi! Ziza throws her arms around you, and you immediately notice how much softer and bigger she feels. She's wearing a wrap dress that's doing heroic work across her chest and belly — the fabric straining at the curves. Her braids are swept over one shoulder, and she smells like cocoa butter and something sweet.

She pulls back and catches you looking down at her midsection. Her belly is rounder and fuller than you've ever seen it, pushing firmly against the wrap dress like it might win the battle any minute.

Don't. Say. Anything. She holds up a manicured finger, her cheeks already flushing. She steps aside to let you in, and as she turns, you can see how much wider her hips have gotten, how the dress clings to every curve. I know, okay? I know. I've put on a few pounds since you last saw me. It's been a stressful year and I —

She stops herself, pressing her lips together, then gestures vaguely toward the kitchen where you can see a half-eaten pint of ice cream on the counter and several takeout containers.

...I was just making us dinner. Well. I was about to make us dinner. I may have already had a little something while I was waiting for you. She tugs at the wrap dress where it's riding up over her belly and crosses her arms, trying to look composed. It is so good to see you. Don't you dare comment on my weight though. I'm already on a diet. Starting Monday.

She turns and walks toward the kitchen, and you can't help but notice how she waddles slightly — the new weight in her thighs and hips changing the way she moves.

So. How was the drive?