Sure enough, more feeble protest. — But. . but. . if you only ate a quarter of that, the serving size would be nothing!
— Exactly! So what is that telling you?
— I. . I don’t know. .
— Oh, stop it, I snap, fixing my most merciless stare on her. — I’ve seen that uncomprehending loser look so many times. I shake my head, and let my voice go high, in sarcastic imitation. — It can’t be! It isn’t fair. I feel my face altering clownishly. — That big question hanging on every leaden bottom lip in America: How did I become a big bovine juggernaut just through sitting on a couch and eating tons of crap? How did that happen?
She’s staring at me, absolutely seething with rage. She’s thinking, “Who is this person? This is my home! I’m not paying her to be insulted and abused!” I’m convinced the chunkoid is about to tell me to get out, so I adopt a more gentle tone. — It’s telling you that this so-called food is nothing more than a pile of fucking shit. And that’s before I even start on the fine detail of the ingredients; — the corn syrup, additives, preservatives, emulsifiers, sugars, and fucking salts. Trust me, Lena, and I drop it in the trash can with the rest, as Sorenson looks like it’s her newborn, which I’ve just torn out her snatch, — this is the enemy. This is the shit that makes you hate the mirror, the clothes store and the bathroom scale. This is the shit that’s wrecking your life and is gonna fucking kill you!
I’ve shanked that fat whore through her blubber, struck right at her very core with my words. I can see her psychic wounds bleed in front of me. And the worst thing about it from her point of view is that she knows I’m one hundred percent correct; that I’m only saying this for her own good. — I know, she feebly begins, — I know what you’re saying is right—
I raise my hand. The fat need to find their voice. But not the quitter-victim voice. They cannot be permitted to speak, unless they speak like adults. — Don’t give me the big fucking “but,” I shake my head in scorn. — They always give the big fucking “but,” that caveat that makes it all okay, that renders everything acceptable. Let me tell you, sister: the only big fucking butt is the one you’re sitting on.
— You can’t talk to me like that—
— Yes I can, and I will, I tell her, my hands on my hips, my jaw thrust out. Then I drop my voice. — Because I want to help you get better. I know you don’t want to hear what I’m going to say, Lena, I cup my ear, — because that not wanting to hear, it’s just all part of the disease. You feel your ears physically shutting. There’s a tune, a trivial mantra playing in your head, to drown out my words, which are punching into your chest like arrowheads. Am I correct?
— I. . I. .
— Well, sister; welcome to the real world. You are going to hear my words. You are going to take cognisance of those words. Perhaps not today, perhaps not even tomorrow, but I will break down your defenses and you will listen to what I’m saying. Cause I’m gonna get you the fuck outta your comfort zone!
Sorenson’s physically shaking, quailing away from me, barely able to look me in the eye. I put my hand on her shoulder. Then she suddenly turns her head and stares at me, pushing her hair out of her eyes. I give her a big, open, affectionate smile. — Now show me around!
We walk outside into the backyard. I’m still interested in her studio, which sits in front of the small pool. — That’s where I work, she explains, adding, — I haven’t done much in a while.
— Can we take a look inside?
— No, it’s a mess, she says. — I don’t like to show people where I work.
— Oh-kay. . I raise my hands in mock surrender. — But maybe later, once you feel more comfortable. I look to the studio, then back at her. — Because this place is important. This is where you need to be, here, I tell her, then I point inside to the kitchen, — not in there.
Sorenson nods at me, in the failing light. A breeze clatters the swordlike leaves of the big palm against the window, scoring the silence. Because although it’s tearing her apart to admit it, she knows it’s true, every fucking word.
She offers to drive me home but I insist on getting a cab. — I can pick one up on Collins.
— It’s really no bother.
— No thank you. You’ve done enough already.
— But that’s nothing, that night on the causeway, you don’t know how much you’ve already given me.
— Honey, I ain’t even started yet, and I throw my bag over my shoulder and walk out into the night.
Of course, when I get outside I double-back into Sorenson’s yard. I’m crouching under the window, looking at her through the blinds. Sorenson is sat at the computer. She’s gaping at what looks like pictures of fluffy baby animals and it seems she’s crying. Fat loser tears. Well, let her bubble away, but if I see that bitch take that shit out the trash and stuff her face I swear to God I will kick that door in and ram my fingers down her throat till that poison comes up. .
Fuck. . my cell makes a soft purr. I click it onto silent. Sorenson’s heard nothing. Some emails have come in, one is from Sorenson! I skulk out the yard to look at it.
8. CONTACT 3
To: kimsangyung@gmail.com; lucypattybrennan@hardass.com
From: lenadiannesorenson@thebluegallery.com
Subject: Did You Ever See Anything So Cute?
Kim, Lucy,
This is to cheer you guys up!
Did you ever see anything so cute?
Lena x
The rabid but pitiful bitch has linked me to a website called Cute Overload. It’s all puppies, kittens, bear cubs, hamsters, and bunnies. Judging by the posts on it, everyone is a mentally retarded soccer mom, or a mentally retarded soccer mom in waiting.
9. CUTE OVERLOAD
I BLINK AWAKE into a mango light that paints the room. The digital display on the clock—9:12—jolts me alert. What the fuck, I never—
I have a client at 10:30!
— shut the front door. .
Heat and mass by my side; a storm of awareness that the bed is co-occupied thuds into my chest. My first dread thought: Sorenson! No, surely not. I turn slowly to look at the slumbering chick next to me; that femme who really liked the taste of pussy and getting fucked good. I went out on a cunt hunt last night, and I hate when I break my own rules and bring a chick back. She even has a leg over mine. As I roughly disentangle she blinks into life and groggily gapes at me. Without makeup she looks so young, a college freshman or sophomore type.
Getting stuck with experimenting bitches isn’t my preferred modus operandi, but hey-ho, you can’t critique a chick who took the plastic you were packing so eagerly. — Good morning, she yawns and stretches.
— And to you. I force a smile. Then it gets uncomfortable. I’m no good at this.
She gets out of bed; tall, lean and hot. I dig that blond-white hair, cut short, but this chick could never be a proper butch, not without at least five years and 100,000 calories. She pulls on her clothes. — I gotta go. Classes. Then she smiles at me. — I can’t believe I made it with the Causeway Vigilante Chick!
— Yeah, I say. How the fuck can you respond to that?
— See ya.
She gets out, and I wait till I hear the apartment door open and close, then spring up. In the kitchen area she’s taken some orange juice out the fridge and slugged it from the bottle without putting it back. Fucking gross: young bitches got no manners.