I told her I didn’t mean to call her fat, but my excuses buried me deeper in the mire, so I took her out for dinner. Which was not too smart.
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I called her back, I don’t know why. She said, I think I love you, and I said, You make it sound so simple. As if she didn’t know me at all.
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I hate myself enough already, I tell her. Slowly she puts down the knife. You smell like a dog, she says. I take a sniff. Check mate, I say.
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The wind foretells a change in season. A death of warmth. I wrap my arms around her. Offer comfort. It’s time to break out the tweed, I say.
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I came home late. She was still awake, and her look rendered me an insect under a rock. I said, Not now. I wanted to be alone with my shame.
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I had to leave her after she complemented a really inferior wine. The waiter saw my expression and empathized. It’s not me it’s you, I said.
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We finished up with the all-you-can-eat buffet and I said, I don’t think I’m ever going to eat again and that’s when she decided to leave me.
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He can sense her disappointment. He’s disappointed people before. But her’s stings. She can’t even look at him. I used to be famous, he says.
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She said, Your love’s too big for me, and he smiled and said, No one’s said that to me before, and she let him think what he wanted to think.
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He’s the dude who brushes his teeth in the employee washroom. His boss says, You always smell minty fresh. Then again, she has yellow teeth.
