She fell in love with the detective she hired to find her missing boyfriend. With her extra large charm, her exotic mushroom breasts and folds of chin, she told him to call her Fatty. "Please, "she said, "I’m not ashamed anymore. " He made an inept pass, referring to her figure as cream puff, that heavy people always struck him as something light. Later, he confided that his mother made cream-filled pastries for an Italian bakery on the East Side. She almost swooned.
The weight was something she learned that she couldn’t lose, unlike her skinny boyfriends. There was a history of them and they loved her lady fingers and her delicate biscuits. It was so easy for skinny men to grow cold or hungry. Or to become lost. They were copy cats of each other.
In bed, the detective brought all the tools of his trade: his wise-guy one-liners, his gun-metal hardness, his restrained passion that made her want more. Although he was somewhat older than most of her past steadies, he managed to lubricate her with the delight she recalled from her mother’s favorite black-and-white movies, where somebody whistled and somebody else opened the door. At times, she imagined the skinny boyfriend swallowed up, deep inside her chest cavity, tortured by her fluttering cries. With Mr. Gun-Hard, she felt heavy but perfect.
The detective sat up. She sunk her head against his back and offered him a jumbo breakfast of flapjacks, scrambled eggs and more sex over easy. Shaking his head, he stated that there was a new clue, but he didn’t want to get her hopes up. A pair of shoes, same style and size as the missing boyfriend’s, were located near a dock. "Shoes?" she asked. "But the last time I saw him, he was wearing sneakers." She could drown in the ensuing silence.
Nevertheless, he still had to check it out, he said.
He turned to kiss her and it felt like old candy, but edible and melting. The mouth of her missing boyfriend always tasted like menthol cough drops. He chained-smoked, suffered bouts of deep-water depression and complained of an eternally recurring sore throat.
"I’ll be back, Fatty," he said.
She listened to the screech of his tires. She inspected the red love marks where he grabbed her too hard, too passionately, or the places he let go of too fast. There were no teeth marks she could become giddy over. Adipose was more impressionable than muscle. It held water and she marveled at her ability to remain dense and solid-like, while others disappeared. She imagined this detective as once being thin and without shelter. She now envisioned a body lying at the bottom of murky deep waters.
Today, ships would be ordered to strangulate in ports. Birds would mysteriously drop from the sky at an alarming rate. Lanky boys-to-men would wander aimlessly in a city of hardened suspects. She wondered which one, if any, would return. She wondered which one she would claim.
published 16 January 2013