I’ve tried to be cool, and ‘share the wealth,’ and everything. I consider myself a pretty open-minded guy, and I don’t get hung up or possessive or jealous or anything. I think she’s just now getting that pregnant lady glow, so she’s damn pretty (not that she wasn’t before. It’s just that it was a different kinda pretty. This kind, the pregnant kind, is … aura-like, I guess). I can understand that you might not be able to control yourself and your eyes and where your eyes are looking/fixating, but if you don’t mind, I gotta ask you to stop staring right at her boobs like that.

It’s not that she’s my wife, and how dare you objectify her (more accurately, her boobs). It’s not that you stare at my wife at the expense of yours, who’s only a few feet away, decidedly un-stared at. It’s that you’ve been doing it for at least a minute now, and it’s perplexing me no end. You’ve had your fill of what Wife-asaurus’ boobs look like so maybe it’s time to check something else out. We’re at a Kohl’s in Lincolnwood, so you’re not exactly spoilt for choices. Not too many other things to stare at, but ...

Luggage? There’s some luggage right over there. Kid’s clothes? You could maybe look at those kid’s clothes. The line at the register? Someone’s freaking out at the register, trying to get a vacuum cleaner for twenty bucks cause the cardboard box’s all wanged up. You could maybe go look at that.

I guess you’re lucky that your wife’s over there, more concerned with finding a pair of shoes that fit her and are attractive and at a price she can live with. You’re lucky. Better hope she doesn’t find that pair before you’re done with the …

Oh. Hold on, hold on. Hold on. She …

Okay. I thought she mighta been looking your way but actually all she was doing was looking at a pair of shoes that were right between her eyes and you. You’re safe. On with the ogling, I guess, huh?

Another aspect of this that rankles is you’re not even hiding it. You are open and brazen in your ogling. Right smack dab in the middle of the aisle. In your t-shirt that doesn’t entirely cover your stomach, doesn’t even come close to meeting the waistband of your sweatpants, so your big fat belly is hanging out, like a big thing of bread dough rising. Why, now that I think of it, you’re almost pregnant yourself. In a way. If you think about it. (Well done on your belly button, by the way. That thing’s huge. Wide and deep. Thing’s like a bowl. At a party, you’d come in real handy, I bet. You could lay on your back and use that belly button for dip. That thing’d hold guacamole or salsa or that French onion dip every family party I ever went to as a kid had.)

Can’t decide if I’d rather you tried to sneak a peek, be surreptitious and all that. Is it better that you’re openly ogling? To the point of being a bit of a letch? Or would I prefer you thinking you can get away with an undetected long hard look at those two big bazongas she’s now got happening. Hm. That’s a tough one. I’ll hafta think about that and let you know. Might take a while, for me to arrive at my conclusion, but that’s okay. She’s gonna be shopping for a while still and I’ve no doubt you’ll be staring as long as she’s shopping.

Not that I blame you though. I find myself staring myself. Mouth agape, jaw hanging slack, Stupefaction on my face. Where did they come from, these bazongas? A couple weeks ago, they were just your run-of-the-mill, ordinary, average everyday hooters. Just a coupla bongos which (while quite nice, don’t get me wrong, she had quite a nice pair of bongos there, pre-pregnant) one could gaze upon without being stopped in one’s tracks. A pair just hanging around doing their own thing.

But now, barely a fortnight later, Ka-POW. Ka-BLAM. Ba-ZOOM. When she gets dressed for work every morning, I think ‘Holy Smokes!’ Then, I ogle some more. If she wasn’t my wife, it’d be a bit … pervy. So, nah, I don’t blame you. Not for the impulse, the urge, to ogle. But, I should point out that she is not your wife. So your ogling is, in fact, a bit pervy. The longer you stare, the more pervy it gets.

And man oh man. You just keep staring. Even after you know you’ve been caught. By me. By her. We both caught you. She even said to you, ‘Easy there, easy.’ Didn’t matter. You kept right on staring. Was it that you were hypnotized? Did they mesmerize you? Were you powerless?

Your eyes tracked her from the shoes to the onesies aisle. What I wanted to do was go round the corner, out of sight, over to the candles and weird trinkets, to see if you’d follow. Have her boobies got so big that you would leave your section to keep looking? That’s what I wanted to find out. She wouldn’t go for it, though. She told me to grow up.

So then I thought an acceptable compromise woulda been if I had her bounce up and down a little bit. Not a lot, just a little. To make ‘em bounce a bit. I wanted to see if your eyes would track them. If eyes and boobs would bounce in unison, basically. She didn’t go for that either. Then I thought maybe she could swing ‘em from side to side. Cause I bet your eyes would follow like you were getting hypnotized by a pendulum. She refused, asking if I was enjoying this as much as he was. (Sometimes, she just steadfastly refuses to be any fun.) I told her you started this. You meaning you, not you meaning her. Though I spose a case could be made that she started this, not you. Since it was she who sprouted those big huge hypnotic things in the first place.

If you think they’re a coupla formidable opponents right now, you shoulda saw how they looked in the top she wanted to wear. She put on this green tank top kinda top. Like a tank top, but not. I dunno what it’s called, there’s a name for what the top’s called. Anyway, she said “Is this obscene?” I couldn’t speak. She changed into something a wee bit more … demure. The fact that I could speak when looking at her in the top she changed into and was able to more or less form words signaled to her that yes, it was safe for public consumption.

But … get a hold of yourself, please. It’d be nice if you closed your mouth. It’s been hanging open so long, your tongue’s gotta be bone dry, and you’re gonna get cottonmouth and hafta head out to the food court for a …

Oooh, your wife’s catching you. Careful, now, you wanna avert your eyes before your wife catches wind that what you’re doing is …

Too late. She figured it out. You’re in for it. Better get in some kinda defensive position, better kinda lift your arms and make yourself harder to hit by covering up with your …

God, look at you. Your wife’s storming over to thump the holy hell outta you, but you still can’t stop staring. You’re still looking. Maybe they’re the first pregnant lady knockers you’ve ever seen. Maybe that’s it. You’ve never seen any before so that’s why you’re gonna allow yourself to be defenseless as your very own wife wails on you with her big heavy purse/handbag thing.