I wrote this quite some time ago. It came runner-up in a microfiction competition.
Being pregnant in summer; you can’t hide that through tent like, cotton dresses. I thirst for winter, where I can swap threadbare smocks for thick coats. It’s as though someone has put a match to strangers eyes; drunken smiles painted on bland faces. I wish for people to pass me by, but they gush; pressing sweaty palms on my taut gut.
‘What are you having?’
‘Some people like a surprise,’ they say with upturned lips.
My husband would spin in his grave if he knew people were touching my belly, sizing me up like some strange fruit from Africa.