A couple of nights ago, d and I were having dinner out, when I realised she was staring at me. Now of course, plenty of people stare at me, it goes with the whole fat fuck territory, but you tend to grow immune after a while.
This though wasn't one of those "Eww, what the Hell is that?" stares - which I suppose when you remember she's my wife is just as well. It was more a kind of quizzical "Who are you and what have you done with my husband?" kind of stare. I looked up from my starter.
"What?" I asked, wondering whether I had tomato sauce in my beard.
"Lift your head a bit more," she said. I did.
"Yeah, thought so," she said, going back to her mozarella and music-bread.
"Whaaaaat?" I whined.
"Your face is changing," she said. "Getting slimmer. I mean, the right side's always been different to the left, but...yeah...slimmer."
Terrific - I'm getting more pronouncedly lopsided the longer this goes on. Still, if bits of me are getting smaller (with one or two...or technically three notable exceptions), then all to the good.
That night when we crawled into bed, d reached out a hand, which rested on one of the prodigious man-breasts you've heard about ad nauseum. Notsomuch in a sultry, "How you doin' Big Man, come here to me" kind of way, more a sort of familiar, "where did I leave that squidgy hot water bottle?" way. She patted around a bit, then sat up.
"Hey," she said.
"How you doin'...?" I purred, trying to railroad the conversation in a direction I liked. She ignored me.
"Your boobs are shrinking too," she said.
Not the absolute worst thing to hear at that point, but not exactly the best, either.
She laid back down. I blinked, twice, in the dark.
"So...erm...how you doin'...?" I tried again.
"Fine dear," she said, patting the man-boob again in a "go-to-sleep-now-dear" sort of way.
So...no busy-getting on this blog, nonononono, but I am at least genuinely disappearing...
Which is something, I suppose.
By the way, blood yesterday was 5.9. This morning, 6.2.
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