He made porridge for his pregnant wife who was perfectly round now, like a peach. He sliced her an apple, scooping each crescent into honey from a spoon. Once she’d eaten and he’d washed her bowl, he went to work, where took two meetings and made small pieces of conversation. Around four, he made his way to the pub to meet his girlfriend and ask questions about her day. After a pint and a half of cold lager, they parted. Content, she walked alone through the evening; he hurried home to make dinner for his unborn child and the woman whose body sustained it.
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