Grumble Grumble Grumble...
Wrote this a while ago. Review. If you don't, I'll feel absolutely terrible.
And I'll cry.
It is utterly infuriating --the way she lays on the couch, her hands flung carelessly over her head, the soft swell in her gut from the three pounds of turkey she had undoubtedly consumed pressing defiantly into the air. The woman, though inclined to withhold herself from food for days on end when swept up with work, is an utter glutton, and uses every inane Earth holiday to indulge this most salacious trait.
Of course, Gretchen and I are the ones left to clean up, to wade through the innumerable dishes and dispose of poultry carcasses that had been thoroughly picked clean. Flecks of white batter against the window as I stand at the sink, the tiny, perfectly symmetrical crystalline flakes melting seconds after they hit the frosted panes. Snow is one of the more tolerable forms of Earth precipitation, and as I watch the grass slowly fading, I am oddly contented.
That sentiment does not last long, however, as the youngest Janeway, who had conveniently skulked off after dinner, reappears in the kitchen to divest my hands of a freshly washed plate for another piece of pie. Catching my look, she grins at me and gestures to her burgeoning belly.
"I've got to eat for two, you know."
Any further comments I would have made were bit back, as Gretchen laughed in delight and began to fondle Phoebe's belly for the hundredth time that day. It is curious, how one derives so much pleasure from an engorged gut inhabited by what will soon become a tiny, squalling hellion.
I decide to use this distraction to my advantage, and leave the kitchen, work unfinished, to join Kathryn. Snores, husky and strained, emanate from her throat and linger in the air for long moments before being eaten by another abrupt snort of somnolence. I stifle a sigh, and as I gaze at her, childlike and resplendent in her sleep, I am overcome with affection.
Her angular features are relaxed, lips quirked, the characteristic harshness graced with an untroubled softness that one only catches in sleep. Her hair is spread in a halo about her face, strands of defiant grey streaking the auburn, and thin, graceful lines stem from the corner of her eyes, evidence of far too many years hard work.
I nudge her over, lying against her, and eliciting a pleased grunt.
"You would not be so sleepy if you would not devour dinner like it's your last meal."
She smiles, planting a quick kiss on my temple before nestling her head into my neck.
"It's tradition, dear. It wouldn't be Thanksgiving without eating until you're within an ounce of your breaking point."
I press my hand against her full belly, jiggling it slightly, and she squirms beneath my touch.
"Oh God, don't!" she groans, puffing out her cheeks for emphasis.
I give her an endearing look, the corners of my lips twitching uncomfortably.
"You are a pig."
She grins and pulls me tightly against her.
"And you love me."