married businessman was a bigamist.
He had two wives; neither knew about the other. The wives were in Oregon and Washington and were uncannily similar. Both were doctors, both were slim blondes, both had two children with him, both were office holders in their elite clubs, and both were snobby and cold.
Both were beyond head bangingly angry.
We represented the Oregon wife.
Her first words to Cherie: “I want his penis on a platter.”
I took another face-plant on my walk on Saturday to avoid Jake. He likes to run and varies his route. If he didn’t, I’d hide out behind someone’s house so I could watch him and that body on a routine basis with my binoculars—not that I would stalk him. That would be creepy. I saw him coming and darted into an alleyway I used often, then hid behind these giant green recycling bins we have in Oregon. I heard him breathing past. When I thought he was gone, I came back out in time to see him in the distance. My, he had a nice bottom.
I could never converse for long with that man with the nice bottom—too scary—but I could not deny that perfect shape, those strong hips, those grippable shoulders. But I am not obsessed with him. That would be freaky.
She snickered. I saw it. Her hand covered her mouth pretty quick, but it was there.
“What?” I hastily put the red dress back on the rack.
“Oh, nothing.” Eileen turned her face away, pretending to be interested in other dresses.
I felt my throat get all tight. Silly to get a tight throat over a dress. But it was so stunning . It had a draped V-neckline, spaghetti straps, and a ruffle at the bottom. I had seen it and instantly sucked in my breath. If only I had the nerve to wear that red dress!
I felt the material again, my breath still caught.
She giggled.
“What? You don’t like the dress?”
“Well…”
“Say it.” I sighed. I hated that I sighed. It sounded so petulant and childish. Why do I become petulant and childish around Eileen?
“If you really want to know….” She smiled with a slightshake of her head, her real and mongo-sized diamond earrings flashing. “It’s not your style. That’s for someone…younger, very thin. Sexy. Hey! You don’t have to look all hurt, Stevie, you asked for my opinion.”
I took one last peek at the red dress, then idly flicked the hangers, one after another, pausing here and there at other dresses. All of them paled in comparison to that spectacular red dress.
She giggled, hand over mouth.
Eileen Yorkson and I have known each other since seventh grade. We were chubby then and got fatter together. Almost all of our time was spent eating, cooking, baking, eating more. We were eating partners. She ate because she had a terrible relationship with her mother and then the mother walked out when she was fifteen and Eileen refused to “ever, ever speak to her again, that loathsome bitch,” though her mother begged her. I ate because I was trying to numb my insidious grief.
To say that my operation has had an effect on our relationship would be like saying an earthquake, ranked as a nine on the Richter scale, shook things up a wee bit.
Eileen still weighed more than 300 pounds.
She reminded me every time I saw her that I had not lost the weight on my own.
I picked up a purplish-colored dress. It shimmered and shone.
“You’re not serious,” Eileen laughed, ripping the dress from my hand and slamming it back on the rack. “Try this on.” She pulled out a large bluish green shirt with white flowered buttons. Even if I was still heavy I wouldn’t have worn it. People would think I was a daisy patch.
“I don’t think that’s my style—” I said, softly, so as not to start yet another argument.
“Not your style!” Eileen exclaimed, perfectly made-up eyes open wide. She threw her shoulders back. She’s about two inches taller than me and wears $500 heels, so she towers over me. “Yes, it is. You love flowers!”
“Ummm…well…”
“You can’t
He had two wives; neither knew about the other. The wives were in Oregon and Washington and were uncannily similar. Both were doctors, both were slim blondes, both had two children with him, both were office holders in their elite clubs, and both were snobby and cold.
Both were beyond head bangingly angry.
We represented the Oregon wife.
Her first words to Cherie: “I want his penis on a platter.”
I took another face-plant on my walk on Saturday to avoid Jake. He likes to run and varies his route. If he didn’t, I’d hide out behind someone’s house so I could watch him and that body on a routine basis with my binoculars—not that I would stalk him. That would be creepy. I saw him coming and darted into an alleyway I used often, then hid behind these giant green recycling bins we have in Oregon. I heard him breathing past. When I thought he was gone, I came back out in time to see him in the distance. My, he had a nice bottom.
I could never converse for long with that man with the nice bottom—too scary—but I could not deny that perfect shape, those strong hips, those grippable shoulders. But I am not obsessed with him. That would be freaky.
She snickered. I saw it. Her hand covered her mouth pretty quick, but it was there.
“What?” I hastily put the red dress back on the rack.
“Oh, nothing.” Eileen turned her face away, pretending to be interested in other dresses.
I felt my throat get all tight. Silly to get a tight throat over a dress. But it was so stunning . It had a draped V-neckline, spaghetti straps, and a ruffle at the bottom. I had seen it and instantly sucked in my breath. If only I had the nerve to wear that red dress!
I felt the material again, my breath still caught.
She giggled.
“What? You don’t like the dress?”
“Well…”
“Say it.” I sighed. I hated that I sighed. It sounded so petulant and childish. Why do I become petulant and childish around Eileen?
“If you really want to know….” She smiled with a slightshake of her head, her real and mongo-sized diamond earrings flashing. “It’s not your style. That’s for someone…younger, very thin. Sexy. Hey! You don’t have to look all hurt, Stevie, you asked for my opinion.”
I took one last peek at the red dress, then idly flicked the hangers, one after another, pausing here and there at other dresses. All of them paled in comparison to that spectacular red dress.
She giggled, hand over mouth.
Eileen Yorkson and I have known each other since seventh grade. We were chubby then and got fatter together. Almost all of our time was spent eating, cooking, baking, eating more. We were eating partners. She ate because she had a terrible relationship with her mother and then the mother walked out when she was fifteen and Eileen refused to “ever, ever speak to her again, that loathsome bitch,” though her mother begged her. I ate because I was trying to numb my insidious grief.
To say that my operation has had an effect on our relationship would be like saying an earthquake, ranked as a nine on the Richter scale, shook things up a wee bit.
Eileen still weighed more than 300 pounds.
She reminded me every time I saw her that I had not lost the weight on my own.
I picked up a purplish-colored dress. It shimmered and shone.
“You’re not serious,” Eileen laughed, ripping the dress from my hand and slamming it back on the rack. “Try this on.” She pulled out a large bluish green shirt with white flowered buttons. Even if I was still heavy I wouldn’t have worn it. People would think I was a daisy patch.
“I don’t think that’s my style—” I said, softly, so as not to start yet another argument.
“Not your style!” Eileen exclaimed, perfectly made-up eyes open wide. She threw her shoulders back. She’s about two inches taller than me and wears $500 heels, so she towers over me. “Yes, it is. You love flowers!”
“Ummm…well…”
“You can’t
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