"Stevens?"
You look up from your nervous hands at the stern guard in front of you, dressed in her crisp blue-black slacks and gun on her hip. No one else is in the room with you, having been called for visitation what feels like hours ago via alphabetical order, and you've been baking in the cheap plastic chairs that remind you vaguely of elementary school.
At first, your break from the craziness of your life seemed unbearably lonely and you found yourself in a fit of melancholy that lasted until about the beginning of March when your birthday hit. You were indulged with Shirley Temples and cupcakes and you fell asleep into the vanilla buttercream frosting.
But then you were Okay, having gotten used to the loft apartment that's much too big for you by yourself, and treasuring the sporadic phone calls you got from N'Jadaka. But then he told you he wanted to see you, your name being cleared for visitation a week and a half before his actual release.
It's better late than never, you suppose, but you find yourself fidgeting as you slowly pull yourself to your feet. That baby of yours has made herself nice and comfortable inside you now, your stomach so round it's impossible to think you had a large lunch. She's not very active, that's for sure, and your friends expressed surprise at the fact that they thought you'd be bigger so close to your third trimester.
You're not complaining, at the size at least, because she's sitting rather high and round which saved you from that protruding oblong-shaped pregnancy stomach some of the women in your yoga class have.
You could do without her curb-stomping you in the ribs late at night, though.
The guard is rather impatiently holding the door for you up ahead, making you sigh in irritation because you're moving as fast as you can and this baby has fucked up your alignment something awful. You feel like a car that lost an axle sometimes when you walk, and although yoga is helping, you're won't be moving with purpose anytime soon.
"I'm coming," you huff, already starting to sweat. There doesn't seem to be any air conditioning in the lobby of the facility, and it's ironic considering the cold atmosphere of your surroundings. The dark blue paint on the cinderblock walls, the heavy clanging of doors shutting in the distance and the errant beeping of something you can't see unlocking.
You slip off your black converse as quickly as you can, rolling your eyes at the theatrics of it all. The guard with an attitude takes your shoes and looks through them as a different, male one, takes his time feeling your legs and thighs for imaginary paraphernalia. There's not much you can hide in a short-sleeved black babydoll dress but apparently he thinks your stomach is fake if the way he keeps feeling it is any indication.
After a bit you just say, "I'm pregnant," to which he scoffs and makes you open your mouth.
They finish their show, making sure you aren't hiding a blade in your socks or armpits or whatever, letting loose another loud beep as you step through another doorway.
Now the oppressive silence is gone, replaced with loud and animated talking from everyone inside the Visitor's Room. Honestly, you expected the stereotypical spiel for all this; glass and shitty chairs where you'd sit and talk through a gross phone up to your ear.
Instead, there's chairs and tables and people everywhere, talking and laughing and getting up to get food from the wall of vending machines to the left of you. There's a couple guards in here as well, sitting behind a desk near the entrance and another door that leads to a gated courtyard with a few picnic tables outside.
