DOROTHEA

TWENTY-EIGHT

"In the cracks of light
(can we just get a pause?)
I dreamed of you..."

———

June 18th, 2018 - London, England

Thirteen shows down. Over six months pregnant.

Dorothea gazed out the window of their eighteenth floor hotel suite. The towers of the city were hidden in a cool white, misty fog. It was chilly for an almost-summer day, and yet she was sweating like she was running a marathon in Death Valley.

Every inch of her body was swollen. The first time she got up to pee, she looked in the bathroom mirror and was horrified. Her face—quite literally—looked like a failed experiment with a new brand of Botox. Or perhaps like what happened when she ate pineapple (which she was severely allergic to). It didn't matter whether she was standing, sitting, or laying down; she now felt as though she was constantly floating in a swimming pool of her own discomfort.

Her bump was starting to get in the way. Dorothea knew it wasn't huge but it felt as if she was carrying triplets (a nightmare she'd had twice, which was enough for her to make a paranoid call to Dr. Marshall at seven in the morning on a Saturday, just to double-check her...situation? for lack of a better term. Lo and behold, there was still and had always been only one —duh— Blood-Sucker).

She was suddenly becoming much more aware of doors. Door frames. Dressers. Counters. Coat racks. Tables and couches; any sort of furniture, architectural detail or junk that she'd never given more than a single shit about previously. All thanks to the New Addition that treated her bladder like a trampoline and kicked the inside of her stomach like a soccer ball destined for a goal on the opposite end of the field.

At the most recent show in Dublin, Dorothea had been offered a stool to sit on when she was photographing from one of the more stationary spots. Though she accepted it, she continued to stand as usual for the entire show. Her feet wanted to kill her but she refused to give in so soon. Had she still been working at The Pearl, Will certainly wouldn't have put her on napkin and silverware duty until Month Eight, at the earliest.

But also, she wasn't working at The Pearl. Several months had now slipped passed since Dorothea had last stepped through the restaurant's velvet and plant-adorned lobby. Though frequently she had recurring dreams that she was zooming around various sections holding trays piled high with food and expensive booze, which always ended with her not being able to find her tables. Despite the fact that she was knocking into things more than ever, she was horrified to think that had she still been a server, it would have only been that much worse.

"Room service!"

Dorothea's eyes shot up from trying—struggling— to put on one of her socks and landed on the singer entering the bedroom. In contrast to her own feelings, Taylor wore a smile that could have parted the clouds out the window as she carried a cardboard tray with two paper coffee cups. "That was fast," Dorothea commented.

"I was gone for almost forty minutes," Taylor chuckled, presenting the tray to her.

Dorothea hummed appreciatively, then took the Chai-labeled cup. She was about to tip the plastic lid towards her lips but sensed the liquid was almost boiling hot. She frowned, blowing into the opening. "I feel like a beach ball," she grumbled.

"Swelling hasn't gone down?" Taylor frowned, gingerly raising her own scalding coffee to her lips.

"I think my face speaks for itself." Dorothea laughed darkly.

"Well I don't think you look like a beach ball," the blonde said.

"A hamster ball, then,"

"No."