Look outside your window right now. It’s night where you are, isn’t it? Can you see it? Can you see the moon?
What phase is it in?
You think back to grammar school science. Well past half moon. Waxing gibbous, it’s called. The moon is nearly full. It’ll be full tomorrow.
You knew that. You keep calendars. You read almanacs. You know every night of the year that’ll have a full moon. But seeing it makes it real.
You’ll have to cancel your date tomorrow. Tomorrow you’re staying in and pulling the blinds.
Tonight, you dream. You’re in a boat, close to your special somepony. You can feel his warm breath on your neck. There’s nothing and nopony around but the gentle song of tree frogs. You look over to meet your somepony’s gaze. There’s love in his eyes. And a reflection. Of the full moon.
Your mouth goes dry, your breath catches. The moon. Your heart raps, thumps, pounds. Your stomach growls.
Suddenly the boat is less roomy. And less bouyant. Your somepony feels more of you touching him. And more, and more.
Your rear swells against the wooden seat, filling and overfilling it, your cheeks dangling off the back and plumping out and up. Your barrel blimps into heavy, thick rolls.
Your somepony was holding you around your waist for comfort, and now he’s grabbing your lovehandles so he isn’t pushed off the boat. But it’s wasted effort, because your tremendous and still-growing mass is sinking the boat beneath you.
Your somepony has to crawl up your bloated belly and over your back to stay above water. You’re plenty buoyant, and only getting moreso. You start to feel the bottom of the lake brush your underbelly—
…when you wake up.
Blearily, you ask yourself if it’s tomorrow yet, or if it’s still tonight. You realize the question’s silly. The only thing that matters is if the moon is out, and if it’s full. It’s dark in your room. The curtains are heavy. You can’t know for sure unless you actually look.
No, you’ll stay inside for now, and sleep, and try not to dream of the moon.