Casually, I slip into something more comfortable.
No wispy lingerie and feigned accidental black lace.
I’m in baggy sweat pants
And an XXL tshirt
that catches the crumbs of my Quaker rice cakes
as I watch reruns of “Fraiser.”
“We need to get out more.”
I suggest to my cat as she
Lounges on the floor and
Doesn’t make eye contact.
She has to be dewormed every six months.
I haven’t even had a good pregnancy scare this year.