The morning smelled of fried bread and cumin.
Surbhi moved between the small stove and the dining table with the stiff, careful walk of a woman whose body had been completely redesigned overnight. Each step was deliberate. Each movement was calculated. Her thighs pressed together when she walked. Her thick ass shifted under the brown skirt. Her heavy tits swayed under the fresh blouse she had pulled on — a plain white cotton that was already straining at the buttons because the fabric was old and she was fuller than she remembered being.
The reason she was fuller was standing against the wall with his arms crossed, watching her cook.
She did not look at him.
She kept her eyes on the pan.
The boy was already at the table.
