He'd been surprised that first night how petite Alison was--the smallest woman he'd had so far, her head barely reached his nipples. And very healthy. She exercised hard, and was proud to show him her abdominals, her perfect, smooth, taut and round rear, and her well-muscled legs. She was certainly the only woman he'd met who claimed she enjoyed stairclimbers and rowing machines. Such strict attention to her physique included diet, and so she hadn't been prepared for the cream sauces, the nights of sheer ecstatic indulgence in all things edible, the ease with which one got hooked by rich, buttery fattening foods. He supposed it had been something like springing a trap on poor Alison. By the time she'd mentioned to him--a gentle reproof--that she thought he over-indulged when they went out to dinner, he could only laugh. She told him as if he might be unaware of it himself. In all other ways he was the personification of charm and compassion; a wonderful, thoughtful lover. Of course when he'd offered her the ring she had accepted. On the first date he showed it to her. On the second date, he placed it on her finger. His eating habits didn't dissuade her from accepting his offer of a more significant relationship.
Then the tummy had arrived.
Suddenly she didn't fit comfortably in her electric blue Lycra. Where she had been hard muscle, she began to bulge. The solution of course was to increase her workout and decrease the number of times she ate out with him, both of which she did. She promptly gained another dozen pounds. Soon he had to coerce her into going out, and when she did, she ate the lightest fare--a salad, or something high in protein like fish, while avoiding all starches, breads and pastas--while he devoured half the planet with his usual zeal, but always solicitous, always asking if she minded that he ate a regular meal, exhibiting such concern that she could say nothing except "of course not". There were many nights when she begged off dinner and he went out alone. It didn't matter. Once she'd handled the ring, she didn't have to be with him.
Now five months had passed and the engagement had run its course. The longest it had ever run was eight months, but Anita had been a much taller woman to begin with. At four months while expressing continued desire for her company, he ceased to exhibit any for the physical relationship they'd shared. Without saying anything directly, he reproached her for her size. He found her 190 pound physique as repugnant as she did. He didn't weigh that much. She was only five-feet tall. She couldn't remotely carry this kind of weight around. Just climbing the steps to the restaurant left her labouring for breath. He held her hand and waited for her with the utmost patience and consideration. Never would he give her cause to doubt the sincerity of his concern. Treadmills and rowing machines fell by the wayside. Alison couldn't bend forward enough to row, and she complained of back aches when she used a stair climber. At five months, the skin sagged on her arms, flowed around her elbows and knees. Her calves literally hung over her ankles. She was gelatin, marshmallow, not human at all. He found it all terribly disgusting, especially as he sat there, indulging himself with a raft of the most glorious foods and never gaining an ounce.
She had tried every diet and gone so far as to experiment with acupuncture and hypnosis. He suspected she had become bulimic. She couldn't become anorexic. Not quite yet anyway.
Nothing had worked. Nothing was ever going to work.
So while he finished the bisteeya, Alison told him that she had to stop seeing him, that her world was out of control and she needed to get away for awhile. She was going to a clinic in upstate New York where they could help people with her kind of disorder. It was--it had to be--hormonal.
He set down his fork and let her see that he was stunned, crestfallen, horrified. "I do understand," he said. "You have to take care of yourself. Why, it must be awful to have to watch me enjoying food when it's become so miserable for you to eat. That's so awful, Alison. I can't imagine what it would be like to have to stop enjoying food. I don't think I could do it. I'll--I won't have another thing. I'll call the waiter right now and cancel the main course. You should not have to sit here like this."
She agreed with him on that point. But rather than making him end his dinner, she insisted he just allow her to go. "It's better if I don't see you again, either. I'm afraid" --her eyes glistened with her first tears-- "I can't separate you from what's happened to me. I'm sorry." Sobbing, she slid his ring across the table.
She rose to leave the restaurant, but swayed dizzily, and he leaped to his feet and caught hold of her pudgy arm to brace her. He moved as swiftly as someone who had foreseen that she would become light-headed.
He guided her into her coat, then hailed a cab and helped her struggle into the back of it. She clutched his hand, kissed it, then turned her face away. He gave the driver her address and a twenty dollar bill, wished her well, and sent her off.
Once the cab was out of sight, he returned to his table and proceeded immediately to eat the rest of his meal as if nothing had happened, as if there was--and could not have been--a care in the world. Some of the other diners glanced at him with disgust. He ignored them. The waiter asked if the lady would be all right, and he answered, "Eventually. She's having digestion problems." The waiter eyed him peculiarly, and he took that as his cue to say loudly enough for those nearby to eavesdrop: "We've just broken up. So, while I'm sorry that she's feeling ill, I'm not full of tea and sympathy just now. You understand? She's broken my heart and I'm not going to cave in. I refuse." That seemed to satisfy the waiter. At least it lent some justification to his insistence that the dinner proceed. People ate their way out of misery all the time. Didn't they?
Thus he ate and ate as if Alison were still there, as if she or her phantom were being served a portion of everything, too, as if no amount of food could salve his conscience.
As if he had one.
All text and graphics © 2000, Gregory Frost
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