Agnes struggled to pull the dark blue bootcut jeans up past her mid-thigh. They wouldn’t budge. There was no way these jeans were getting past her new, wider hips.
Frustrated, she yanked them off and tossed the jeans across the room. They landed draped over the rail of the crib that now occupied the left side of her bedroom – the side where her writing desk had once stood proudly. Now her desk was shoved into a corner of the living room, out in the open where she could never be alone to write.
She stared at the crib. It seemed to grow before her eyes. It was taking up half the bedroom. It was terribly ugly; a hand-me-down from a relative whose child had just graduated to a “big kid” bed. The pale wood clashed with the deep cherry finish of the rest of the bedroom furniture. It was an eyesore and Agnes hated the tiny one-bedroom apartment because there was nowhere to hide that crib. She had to look at it every day, pretty much all day since she spent most of her time curled up in bed anyway.
The crib grew again. Or were the walls of the room starting to close in? Agnes felt herself slowly suffocating. She felt as if she’d squeezed herself into those size 6 jeans, and now she couldn’t breath.
She ran out of the room, through the living room, and out onto the 5’x5′ patio that was rarely used. She inhaled the fresh air and held it until she thought her lungs would burst.
She could breath again.
David watched Agnes from the living room couch, where he’d been sitting and feeding the baby a bottle. The last he’d seen his wife, he had just walked in the door from an especially trying day at work. As soon as he’d stepped through the front door, Agnes had practically thrown the baby into his arms. She babbled about needing to get out of the house, so David agreed they would go out to dinner. He just wanted to feed the baby first, so she’d sleep through the meal. Agnes had brightened at the idea and had flitted off to the bedroom, babbling about how she was positive her favorite pair of pre-pregnancy jeans would finally fit.
And now she was standing on the patio in a tee-shirt and her underwear. He signed and looked at the baby in his arms. The bottle was empty and her eyes were closed.
He could see Agnes standing on the patio. He couldn’t see her face, but he could see her shoulders drop. Whatever had been wrong had passed. She’d relaxed.
Now, he hoped, they could go to dinner and maybe the rest of the evening would be uneventful.
He wouldn’t even ask why she was standing outside, where all the neighbors could see, without any pants on. He could make a good guess about what had happened. As beautiful as she was, he knew she wouldn’t fit into her pre-pregnancy jeans yet.
The baby was barely a month old.
This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt was: We all have a relationship with jeans. They can make us feel a range of emotions, and this week we asked you to write a piece in which jeans figured prominently.
This is a continuation of the story, Finding Agnes. Additional parts of the story can be found on the Fiction page of this blog. As always, constructive criticism is welcome and greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading!