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No, the reason my coat doesn’t close anymore is that it no longer fits over my distended belly. I am nearly eight months pregnant.
Don’t even try to take my expired bread, you asshole.
He is not, by the way, the father of my unborn child. He’s not my boyfriend either.
Soon, I’m going to be rich beyond my wildest dreams. And it’s all because of the baby growing inside me.
And very soon—after the papers are signed—I’ll likely never see him again.
But as I search the depth of my handbag, I notice one other thing that’s missing. My pepper spray.
