Sunanda raised her shirt and surveyed her midriff in the mirror. Silently, she contemplated the smooth expanse of her belly. Creamy, vast and unclaimed by childbirth, it was protected territory, only her own. Occasionally, Rashid would lie on it, glancing up at her under-chin, as they whispered into the night, but for the most part, the land that radiated around her belly button was a newly cast map: uncreased, uncracked, studded with the mile markers of freckles, and defined by what it wasn’t rather than what it stood for. The stretch of skin that covered her digestive system, her innards, reaching upward to the diaphragm, plunging downward to the pubic triangle, lived and breathed for itself. It was whole. It was calm. It was unperturbed.
Eyes still pinned on her reflection, she reached for the prosthetic stomach, slipped it under her clothes, and waddled out to stock up on groceries.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi