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Vices

Hunter Choate

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She waddles out of the grocery store. Her swollen stomach peeks out from beneath a black tank top. Her arms flex from a twelve-pack of Milwaukee’s Best in each hand. My friend Jacob would love her. He has a thing for pregnant chicks. We discussed this once, and he tried rationalizing it by saying it’s evolutionary. I called bullshit. There’s no biological imperative to screw a pregnant woman. Either way, he’d split one of those twelve-packs with her. He’d say his mother drank when she was pregnant and he turned out okay. Then he’d slowly roll back her dark top to birth the moon of that belly. He’d scale its stretched skin with the tip of his tongue. She’d see all that life inside her surging up through his outstretched tongue and glazing his eyes and curling his toes, and she’d know that nobody ever found her more beautiful than he did at that exact moment. I’d like to introduce them, but instead I roll down my window and tell her she should buy better beer. People are more tolerant of your vices when your taste is discriminating.