"Can you get a move on things? I've had to piss for the last twenty minutes," Thirty-four year old Apple Blossom-Smith stared at her husband through hazel eyes from the passenger's seat of the hummer. Her shoulder length brunette hair was hanging unstyled around her shoulders and she was dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a white shirt that asked "Did I give you permission to touch my stomach?" in red print. As soon as her baby bump had begun to show, Apple had been subjected to family, friends, and even random strangers thinking that her stomach was public property. It had only been a week before she got so frustrated with it that she'd gone on to the internet and ordered every single "Don't touch!" shirt that she could find. They seemed to do the trick, and Apple had since taken to wearing them as much as possible.
"Shh." Michael Smith waved a hand at his wife to silence her. He was dressed in a white button down shirt and jeans. His brown hair was cut short and his face held a five o'clock shadow. A black Motorola SLVR was pressed to his ear. "Charles? It's Michael... Yes, we're both fine. Look, do you remember that favor we talked about a couple months ago? ... We're going to need to take you up on it... Actually we're right out front. ... Got it. See you in a minute."
"So everything is okay?" Apple asked when Michael ended the phone call and rolled down the window.
"Yeah. He said he can't wait to see how big you've gotten." Chuckling, Michael leaned out of the window to punch in the access code that Charles had just given him. The gates in front of them swung open and Michael drove the car up the path, all the while pretending to ignore Apple's huffing about people and their obsession with pregnant women.