“You’re not fat.”
“What do you mean, I’m not fat? I didn’t say anything about it.”
“Well, you implied –”
“I didn’t imply – this is imply –”
“Ow! Hey!”
“That was imply.” She had knocked him on the forehead with the rather un-fleshy base of her palm. The question was whether she should have a second piece of wedding cake; there was plenty and it was so good that it was almost impossible not to. And for her, as is often the truth behind mysterious shadows in the brain, two more pieces of cake would not have harmed her; and for him, as is often the case for mysterious reasons in society, even the piece that he had was easily overlooked by all despite its detrimental contribution. He had tried, charitably, to make the benefit of the cake clear to her, or rather, to mitigate the severity of her self-hatred, and his words were too abrupt, too suddenly sour. But it was just a conjugal moment – they would both be eating more cake shortly, and he would say not in vain that he loved her.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
She just couldn’t enjoy it. Which was silly, really; it was the same delicious cake she looked forward to year after year. Double chocolate layer cake with fudge frosting. Her favorite.
ReplyDeleteStill, he should have checked when he picked it up. Bakeries sometimes make mistakes and they are never open after dinner when the cake is pulled from the box and candles are secretly lodged in the gooey frosting. Or maybe given her some warning instead of trying to cover the mix up with candles hoping she wouldn’t notice. I mean, how would you feel if on your birthday your husband entered the darkened room all smiles and everyone was singing happy birthday and he was carrying your special cake brilliantly lit with exactly 37 candles and you blew it them out in almost one breath and saw that it said, “Happy Birthday Fred!”
She just couldn’t enjoy it.