By some miracle, Allison doesn't seem to realize that she's shot up six inches, even when she turns to pat your arm. Dumbfounded, you smile up at her and suggest, "Maybe I can - maybe I can give you a reiki foot rub later."
"Honestly," she bobs her head, "that would be wonderful, but you don't have to do all that. I will take that breakfast, though, since you offered."
Your heart races as your enlarged stepmother walks away, the clicks and clacks of her heels rattling your eardrums. Did you really just offer her a foot rub? More importantly, did she really miss the fact that she's six feet tall now even without the shoes? There's no way. She stops halfway through the dining room, glances back over her shoulder, then opens her mouth. You brace yourself while desperately searching for a somewhat plausible explanation. Radiation? Maybe there's a gas leak that's causing both of you to share the same vivid hallucination. Has she come into contact with any strange substances lately?
"Hey," Allison says, looking as though she's smelled something rotten, "do you, uh - do you think you could fry up that bacon while you're at it? Don't want it to, um, go bad."
So she did notice after all, but she doesn't want to put it into words. Can't blame her. People don't randomly get taller, especially not when they're about to turn forty. She probably thinks she's losing her mind. There's a little ball of guilt bouncing around in your gut, yet it's no match for the stirring in your loins, which is more than a little distracting. Hopefully she won't mind that the toast got a little overdone.
After a long shower, Allison comes downstairs to the living room in a baggy T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants that hug her skin so tight that nothing is left to the imagination. She sees the plate that you've prepared for her sitting on the coffee table, offers you an awkward smile, then tugs on the elastic band around her waist. You can see where it's bit into the flesh.
"It smells good, thank you."
Sitting back in the recliner, you tell her, "It's nothing, really. Just hope you enjoy it. I'm not the best cook."
"I'm sure it's fine. The thought alone is," Allison stops right there and waves a hand in front of her. "Does anything look different about me? Anything at all?"
"Did you do something with your hair?"
"No, not my hair, my body. Does my, um, body look different to you at all?"
You hope she can't see the heat radiating from your cheeks as you lean forward and inspect her tiny ankles, tremendous thighs, wide hips. "No," you say when you reach the swell of her incredible tits, "not really. I mean, you look like you've lost some weight. Have you been working out?"
"No," she laughs dryly, "I haven't."
"Could have fooled me. You don't look a day over thirty."
Allison's shoulders drop. "Forget it. Just forget it." Caressing her temples with her fingers, she says, "I'm going crazy. I've finally snapped. My clothes don't fit right - at all - and it's like - it's like I've actually gotten - Christ, I don't know how to put it. Bigger? That's the only way to describe it."
"Are you kidding me?" You extend a hand toward her and scrunch up your face. "Most women would kill for a body like that and you're calling yourself fat?"
"Not fat, bigger. Taller. Wider. Everything's just - everything's bigger all around. I don't know what to do."
It's true. Allison's body has grown proportionally, making it difficult to tell at a glance that anything has changed. You get up out of the recliner and walk over, trying your damnedest to appear skeptical while secretly loving the two inches she's got over you. If only she would've put the heels back on.
"Look," the woman cries, pulling you so close that her breasts are squashed against your chest. She places a hand on the top of your head and jerks it through the air until it hits her forehead. "You see this, right?"
"Oh my God, you're right. You really are bigger."
Disappointingly, Allison pushes you away a few seconds later. Probably for the best. There's a tent forming in your pajama bottoms, one that she wouldn't likely appreciate or approve of. You turn your back to her and act as though you're too overwhelmed to process this unexpected revelation.
"Shit, Robby, what am I going to do? How the hell did this even happen?" Voice trembling, your stepmother asks, "How is this even possible?"
The ball of guilt doubles in size, slams against the walls of your stomach. She's about to have a nervous breakdown. Drawing up your shoulders, you turn around and...
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