There is an empty pie tin on the table in front of you. Judging from the guilty look you give me and the smear of pie filling at the corner of your mouth, you’re the sole culprit responsible for the consumption of the pie.

My suspicion is confirmed a moment later when you tell me, “I didn’t mean to eat the whole thing. I just couldn’t stop.” Your jeans are unbuttoned and unzipped, the open sides framing the belly that’s encroaching onto your lap. If your previous binges are anything to judge by, the pie isn’t the only thing you’ll have eaten this afternoon.

“Do those pants even still button?” I ask, eyeing your gut, certain it looks larger and rounder than it used to, even taking into account the fact that you’ve just stuffed a whole pie into it.

A flush spreads across your cheeks. “They will if I really want them to,” you insist stubbornly.

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Prove it,” I say, trailing a finger down your bulging belly and kissing the sticky pie filling off the corner of your mouth.

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