| |
"Of course, we should remind ourselves of what is invisible. It keeps things real, if a little less than normal." There was always a constant pool of fat at the bottom of her pans. The mist in her kitchen obscured the overhead lamp.
"You should put them in now."
"One more second. You don't know how to do it--not to mention you're paranoid." She put in the dumplings, and I imagined she thought they were like me. I, the tall, the svelte, the fashionable, kept up on all the current catalogs. This irked her. "You're so kind to pretend to be fat like me. Really, I take it personally. However, I'd always considered myself on the thinner side of a freight train. I used to spend my solitude feeling taller and thinner than anyone at all. No one looks as good as they do at night, right next to the moon."
"But you're the one with delusions. You're thin as a wire. The daily gossip is wide of the mark."
"Oh? How much?"
"The whole truckload of it."
"And what do you suggest?"
I paused to think of something sharp. "Put all your nightmares on that truck and have them hauled away."
She liked to cook because she liked how steam darkened her. And in her darkness she filled the space around, not with fantasy, but with an ironic loathing. In any case, not looking at herself truly she could forget the real parasites eating her away as she looked out at the bay below, which, for a moment, through the foggy windows, appeared just as obese, perhaps, and just as gorgeous.
|
|
gula and mammon over dinner
christopher wells |