She speaks to me in Indonesian, pointing at my stomach and making motions like she's rubbing her belly. Pointing back and forth between her belly and mine. I steel myself for the No I'm Not Pregnant, That's Just my Regular Stomach Flab, Thank You Very Much conversation, when it becomes apparent I've misunderstood.
I'm all flushed. The fruit vendor is watching me, smiling. A crowd is gathering. Me? Saya? Touch your belly? Anda? You want me to what?
She grabs my hand and begins to rub it all over her belly.
All. Over. It.
She lets go and I breathe again and she's squealing with her friends like she's been touched by some deity. I laugh awkwardly and stammer through random baby-related questions in my broken Indonesian. How many months? Seven. Oh, and is this your first baby? No, I have two boys already. What do you know, I have three boys, maybe you'll have three boys, do you know if it's a girl or boy?
She answers my questions and keeps looking wide-eyed at her friends, oh my goodness I'm talking to her.
And then there are no more questions I can think of, and I have more bananas and guavas in my basket than our family could possibly eat, so I do the only logical thing that comes to mind. I press my hands together Indonesian-style, nod my head with a smile, and say Terima Kasih. Thank you.
For whatever that was that just happened.
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