And yet, for some reason, it felt perfectly normal.
She made short work of the bowl of noodles.
The bottom of the bowl was spotless, with barely a trace of broth left.
Then she set down her chopsticks and let out a burp.
It was a long, loud burp, with no attempt to stifle it. She reached out and patted her belly—I followed her movement with my eyes and only then did I realize her stomach had already begun to swell.
It was round and swollen, as if she were pregnant with something, stretching the waist of her poofy skirt taut.
The fabric of the skirt was pulled into a series of fine wrinkles. The curve was so perfectly round it seemed unreal, looking completely out of place on her slender frame.
But it also seemed strangely fitting—as if that bowl of noodles she'd just eaten was supposed to turn into such a round, bulging belly. Where else would all those noodles have gone?
The problem was, were there really that many noodles?
Enough to create the belly of a pregnant woman?
