"All right," I said to my stomach this morning, poking it awake. "It's been two weeks since we last spoke, and you promised me a verdict on the embryo situation."
It yawned and stretched, glaring at me distastefully. "Well you should know," it groused. "It's your uterus."
"You're the resident smart-ass. Shouldn't you have the inside story?"
"I told you already. Nothing new to report."
"Nothing growing?"
"Nothing but my sincere annoyance with this line of inquiry."
"Fine then," I said, and rolled out of bed in search of my favorite jeans.
"So, I'm thinking burritos for lunch?" said stomach.
With some difficulty, I closed the button on my jeans. "I'm thinking I'll no longer be attributing your roundish, womanly shape to anything maternal for a while."
"Watch it, or I'll work up some serious indigestion on your behalf. Bitch."
As much as I hate letting my stomach get in the last word, I had some strong coffee and such to lean into.
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