Circe

The first time we have sex after the baby, my husband tells me, “I’m not attracted to big girls.” 

When I tell him I’m not attracted to assholes, he makes a face, tells me I shouldn’t take it personally, that our marriage has always been based on honesty. 

“I don’t trust you right now,” I say and wonder whether we had a baby to save us from our worst selves or if the baby turned us into those people. 

I vow never to take my shirt off in front of him again. 

I’m not a big girl, but pregnancy stretched my stomach, and no matter how much weight I lose or how many crunches I do, the loose skin flaps over my waist, purple stretch marks radiating from my belly button. I wear an abdominal binder, but nothing changes. I brew teas rich with turmeric and cinnamon, but the stretch marks remain. I grind psoralea corylifolia seeds and add them to my oats but see no difference. I order areca catechu seeds online, swallow them like pills, and wait for them to transform me. When my stomach continues to sag, I give up on my body ever returning to its prepregnancy state.

My husband makes a snorting noise, laughs, then says he’s only joking. He wants to know when I stopped being able to take a joke.

I keep the lights off when we have sex, which happens less and less often.

A text lights up his phone while he showers, and I open it. “A hint of this afternoon,” it reads, along with a picture of a woman’s thigh, a peek of lace panties. I bet she doesn’t have a stomach flap.

They say the first year after having a baby is the worst, that if you can make it through, you’ll find your equilibrium again. I always thought they were talking about bodies and mental health, but now I think they were talking about marriages, too. 

I consider turning his girlfriend into a cow. Or covering that skinny thigh with a thick layer of fur. Instead, I unlock his phone, delete the text. For good measure, I erase her name from his contacts. 

When he turns off the water, I pad to the bathroom, say, “Why don’t we call in today? The baby’s at daycare. It’s been a long time since we’ve gone on a date.”

He bends over to dry his hair. His voice comes out muffled. “Can’t. I have an important meeting this afternoon.”

I clench a fist, consider what I should do to him, then decide he doesn’t deserve my magic. Truth be told, he doesn’t deserve me. He doesn’t deserve the time I spent carrying our baby or the years I gave him before that. He doesn’t even deserve my stomach flap. And he sure as hell doesn’t deserve the woman on his phone, who will realize too late that she is also replaceable.

When he rights himself, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and feel my body grow squat and small, a tail push against my backside, my nose widen, wriggle. 

My husband jumps back, horrified. Then, his mouth curves into a smile, and he laughs. 

I look up at him, snort, paw at the tiles with my new hooves.

“I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to do.” He shakes his head, still chuckling, turns his back, walks into the bedroom. “I hope you don’t think that’ll fix us.”

It dawns on me that he doesn’t know much about pigs. He doesn’t know we have an excellent sense of direction or that we’re very smart animals. I bet he doesn’t realize how much we love belly rubs, even when our stomachs flap over our waists. He probably doesn’t know we sing to our babies while they nurse. Most importantly, my husband must not realize we can eat almost anything we can chew.