Ok maybe it’s cliche, but imagine you’re my delivery guy and my big, frequent orders catch your eye. You make a point to be the one to deliver to me, and before long you notice the sweatpants I wear to answer the door getting tighter. We only exchange pleasantries during our brief encounters, but I see the way your gaze lingers on my body while you hand me the bags. I start ordering every night just for an excuse to see the cute delivery guy.
You “accidentally” bring me extra food too many times for it to be an accident. I have my suspicions about you but I’m too shy to ask outright, so I start wearing increasingly ill-fitting clothes to answer the door in an attempt to gauge your reaction. I let my shirts ride up over my muffin top, and the way you blush and try not to stare at my exposed skin tells me everything I need to know about your preferences.
I get bolder. I wear clothes I outgrew 40 pounds ago to answer the door, absentmindedly resting a hand on my belly while you desperately try to think of something to say to linger at my door. You get bolder, too, and start bringing milkshakes with every meal even if I didn’t order from a place that sells them. Still, our nightly interactions are loaded with subtext neither of us acknowledge, and we both quietly wonder how much closer my hips will be to the doorframe by the time the dam finally breaks.
