short story

 His presence disgusts me. I can feel the muscles in my face tighten as if to shield a bright light that’s been turned on after being surrounded by darkness for hours. The skin crinkles gathering around my nose like I am smelling two week old milk or rotten eggs. The pounding in my brain is so powerful I raise my hand to the top of my head where the part starts my blunt cut bangs, because I am almost certain he can see the thumping underneath my scalp. I grab my stomach. Ugh he makes me sick. And as soon as he opens his mouth I’m sure to utter some nonsense about how he truly is God’s gift to women I can feel the syrup from my breakfast pancakes and the coffee kick the shit out of the insides of my stomach like pops candy would do to the roof of a mouth and its tongue and shoots out of my mouth onto his Paris Nike dunks. The same shoes he searched endless hours on the net for researching and negotiating a price only to find a guy who had them. It was some 16 year old kid in Westchester New York that probably had his father’s credit card number memorized to buy outlandish merchandise. A father who probably isn’t around to notice and is just please that his kid is staying out of his hair. He wouldn’t let them go for less that $2,500. So dum dum got the money from no doubt a couple of his baby mama’s, I think he is on number four now, hopped a plane to NY and came home with the ever talked about NIKES. And now they are covered in a muddy liquid spotted with chunks and I cant help but crack a smile. It serves his worthless ass right. But my smile is quickly replaced with a pained frown. I don’t dare look up at his hazel eyes, because everything is adding up now. I’m baby mama number five. The cause of my recent nausea and the inability to enjoy the smells I used to love means his seed is growing inside my womb. That I know for sure. I take an exaggerated gulp of air like they do in the cartoons and even make the sound. I don’t know why.