Lornie wasn't going to wear the tan shoes to the wedding; she'd put a red pair by the bed last night that had a subtle heel and open toes. The red shoes matched the scarlet dress (with the plunging neckline) she'd bought the other day at the ultra-chic maternity boutique. Well, my goddamn boobs showed up at long last, Lornie had thought. Might as well show them off. She'd paid for the dress with the latest and last of the checks that had arrived in her mailbox every month for the last nine months, tucked between the gas bill and the Sears catalog.

But today Lornie's feet were too swollen to fit into the red shoes, and the dress that had looked so hot in the boutique mirror made her feel ridiculous in the bedroom, especially since she was forced to put it on backwards so she could tug the zipper into place without the help of a salesgirl. When she finally managed to get the dress on and turn it around, her belly appeared less like a sleekly rounded bump and more like a small picnic table wearing a too-fancy tablecloth. Lornie narrowed her eyes. Her boobs did look pretty great.

Lornie knew radiant, dewy pregnant women existed—she'd seen some of them on the street, glowing with the relief of having transferred all the regret and embarrassing hope they'd previously had to suffer alone straight into their wombs. Lornie's regret wouldn't budge. It remained firmly lodged in her throat, where she could feel it, like a plum, each time she swallowed. As for her embarrassing hope, if it still existed, it certainly didn't belong in her womb. That would be funny, wouldn't it, thought Lornie. If the damn thing marinated too long in my juices and turned out like me. She cast a cool eye over herself in the mirror once again.

"Oh, fuck it."

Lornie peeled off the dress and let it fall to the floor. She'd just wear what she'd been wearing all day, even though it was some shade of pale cream and she vaguely remembered that it was rude to wear white to a wedding, steal the bride's thunder or something. What a laugh.

When her body was once again covered—but hardly hidden—Lornie knelt, with some effort, to scrabble a hand underneath the bed for the tan shoes. The shoes were scuffed, and they had small pink bows on them, which made Lornie itch a little bit. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers, and neither could surrogate mothers with waterlogged feet. Sometimes you just have to do what works.

Photo copyright meeralee. View it on Flickr.