Happy Birthday Patricia

Patricia Hampton swirled the last inch of chardonnay in her glass and smiled—wide, glossy, and unavoidably pouty. Her lips, full and painted a bold coral, were just another reminder that the world had gone utterly mad.

The head table overlooked the grand hall, chandeliers glittering like the night sky. Dozens of round tables dotted the space, each one packed with family. Children, grandchildren, and even a few great-grandchildren she hadn’t held yet. All of them dolled up in formalwear, all of them smooth-skinned and lipsticked, smiling and talking with sing-songy, playful voices that made every sentence sound like it was meant to tease.

Patricia leaned on her elbow, letting her perfectly-manicured nails drum against the linen tablecloth. The friction of lace against her back was familiar now—like an old bra strap that had always been there. Six months was enough to get used to anything, apparently. Even when it came in the form of lacy pink lingerie that clung to her elderly hips under her elegant dress.

She sipped her wine again. “Well, internet, high-speed rail… and now we all sound like phone sex operators,” she murmured to herself with a chuckle. Her voice, too, was high-pitched and breathy, even if she tried to deliver a dry observation. “What a century.”

Her eyes scanned the hall. There was Matthew, her eldest grandson, laughing too brightly as he leaned into his cousin’s side. His lips were a darker red than hers, glossy and precise. His clean-shaven cheeks were impossibly smooth now, eyebrows arched like a Hollywood starlet. He was wearing a tight button-down and slacks, but she could still see the hint of lavender lace underneath when he adjusted his sleeves. Patricia shook her head affectionately. “Still can’t believe he used to have a beard like a lumberjack.”

She caught sight of her daughter-in-law, Clarisse, fussing over the cake with a server. Her bra strap peeked out when she bent forward, bold and ruffled. Patricia hadn’t expected modesty anymore—nobody had modesty anymore—but it was still jarring to see the whole world just… shift. Uniformly. Intimately. Everyone had adjusted. No protests, no marches. Just sighs, awkward laughter, and lots of mirror time.

Then it hit.

The next glitch.

There was no sound. No warning. Just… a tightening.

Patricia’s breath hitched slightly, her corsetless waist cinching inward with a strange, warm pull. She blinked. Sat up straighter.

And gasped softly—daintily—when she looked down.

Her torso had narrowed dramatically, flaring out into her hips in an almost cartoonishly feminine shape. Her waist had vanished, replaced with the kind of hourglass she hadn’t seen since her wedding photos—no, slimmer than that. More dramatic. Like she’d been cinched by a professional corset-maker for a Parisian runway.

Across the room, chairs scraped and gasps rose in unison—soft, fluttery, breathy little reactions. Heads turned. Hands flew to waists. Some people twisted side to side, marveling at their new shapes. Others giggled. A few simply looked around, wide-eyed.

“Land sakes,” Patricia whispered, running her hand along her new figure. Her fingers trembled. She hadn’t had a waist like this in decades—maybe ever. It looked absurd. It looked… fabulous.

Matthew caught her gaze from across the hall. He lifted his hands and framed his new shape with exaggerated flair. “Grandmaaa, are we snatched or what?”

Patricia couldn’t help it—she laughed. A high, sweet trill. “Darling, I think we are!”

The music resumed in the background. A few guests stood up to dance, swaying a little more dramatically now, hips accentuated by their impossible curves.

Patricia looked down at her plate, then out at her family. At this strange, glossy, beautiful world.

It wasn’t the one she was born into. But… it was hers now.