babyhead

It is bedtime and I am in bed.

I wait under the blankets, wanting for the house to settle so I can turn over to my right side and dig into the sleep that will be. I am annoyed the someone has taken my reading lamp from the nightstand. All we are left with is the overhead, which dictates an illumination more suited for a display, than the passage to sleep.

You are about to pass the foot of the bed, but turn on your heel and say, "One more thing." You head back through the bedroom door and into the kitchen.

The house is illuminated again, and I am not sure if that comment was meant for me or you.

I hear a cabinet draw open, pause and then softly close. You trot back through on your way to the bathroom. I want to ask you to turn down the lights but your hands are full. Your hands cradle my baking scale.

I turn over to watch you close the door halfway and place the tool on the painted ledge that surrounds the shower stall. After pressing a few buttons to tare the machine out, you drop your pajama tops onto the floor, raise yourself up on your blunted ballerina toes and lean in. The care in which you place your breast onto the stainless steel platform is something reserved for swaddled newborns. You hold your position, as if this was a rehearsal, waiting for the scale to settle itself. I understand what is happening, but not why. After releasing your body from it's hold and placing your top back on, you through pass again.

You say, "I needed to know the weight for the fake boob."

"Proxy." I think.

You say, "1.5 pounds."

Unwillingly and with shame, in my head, I have to calculate that number into grams.

For accuracy.

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