Cravings
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
The checker at the supermarket looks at Arthur, raising her eyebrow questioningly.
Beep.
"Someone likes bacon," she comments, putting the packs and packs of bacon in the bag.
Beep.
And a bottle of orange Gatorade.
"My wife is pregnant," he says, hoping that it is an adequate explanation.
The checker smiles. "When I was pregnant a hundred years ago, I had to have pineapple," she says, handing him his change and his bag. "Good luck, young man."
"Thanks," he says, and hurries out the door.
Problem with bacon is that you have to cook it. You can't just unwrap it and go. You have to unwrap it, peel those blasted layers apart and COOK the damn things.
And she likes it crispy. Nearly burnt. This baby is going to come out with a curly tail.
He looks down at his arms, at the little red spots from the grease burns he's received from the sizzling, popping meat in the pan.
I wonder if you can microwave this stuff?
Bacon sandwiches, bacon crumbled on salad, bacon as a side dish with dinner. Bacon crumbled over ice cream. Dipped in maple syrup. Dipped in chocolate sauce. Dipped in peanut butter.
And now I have little pieces of bacon shrapnel in my peanut butter.
"Guinevere?" he calls, walking in the front door. No answer. He pads to the living room. She's sleeping on the sofa, on her side, a large fleece blanket tucked up to her chin, her face soft and pouting slightly while she sleeps.
Arthur loves her pouty sleep-face. He secretly hopes the baby will be a girl so he can have two of them to look at. He bends and very gently kisses Gwen's forehead. She mumbles something, but stays asleep.
Somehow her sweet face makes the ridiculous cravings bearable. He wanders off to the kitchen to fry up five pounds of bacon for his Guinevere.