Conversations With the Fat Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

the
    condiment stand. I am not breathing. This is my favorite time of day I
    call it my Guess Which Boxers Domenic Brown, My Future Husband, Is
    Wearing game. I'm working on shortening the name, hut for right now
    let's just stick with that. The audience is quiet. The drumroll . . .
    the suspense is killing me. The bend. The squat. Light blue with a
    Scottish plaid waist. Nice. Very nice. Worth the wait. ?I live by that
    shit,?Cole says into his mug, hitting the I in slid with particular
    vigor. ?It's equivalent to the B sides of the twentieth century, you
    know,?Domenic says. It is difficult to keep my head cocked at just the
    right angle and still be mindful of my reflection in the mirror behind
    me as Domenic talks. I tend to wear shirts that fall over my apron, even
    though I secretly know this makes me look bigger than I am. That way
    there is no illegal tucking involved. Not only is my Area the
     
    33 Conversations with the Fat Girl 27
     
    problem, but also now a whole extra piece of thick fabric is added to
    the mix. The logic is that maybe people will think it's all apron. Of
    course, there are no Ass Aprons on the market, and therefore this is
    left to the eye of the beholder. ?Give me an example.?I am going to draw
    this conversation out until the very bones of it lie decomposing at my
    feet. ?Okay, I'll tailor one for you.?Cole thwarts my plan by
    interrupting. ?I hate to intrude, but is there someone here who can
    clean off one of those tables out front??A much-too-old man stands
    before us in a full, tight . . . oh so tight . . . bicycle outfit. ?Hey,
    Domenic, you're the busboy, go bus.?Cole lifts his eyebrow. ?Yeah, I
    guess I am.?Domenic puts the canisters of sugars hack under the
    condiment stand, slams the small door, picks up his bin, and follows the
    man out front, not turning around once. ?Why do you have to talk to him
    like that??I say ?Like what?? ?You're the busboy. Go bus??I mimic his
    voice in the most patronizing, bossy way possible. ?Jesus, Maggie. This
    is a business. And when you're in a business you have to talk fancy
    business talk . . . not puppies and kittens.? ?At no point did I want
    you to refer to a goddamn puppy or a kitten.?I am set on protecting my
    man. ?Why don't we try not to have a sailor mouth in this family
    establishment, young lady,? Cole says. ?Oh, and Scrawny Ass is sweeping
    kindergarten classrooms across the nation? Remember? Scrawny Ass? Ass??
    ?We're not doin' this.?Cole bangs the espresso out of the coffee handle
    and turns his back on me a second time.
     
    34 28 Liza Palmer
     
    I stand there one second too long with my mouth open, anticipating
    Cole's next move. There isn't one. His next move turns out to be
    ignoring me. I storm into the back room in search of chocolate syrup and
    to get away from Cole and my hanging, belligerent questioning. ?Did you
    get my invite for Movie Night next week? I left it in your cubbie,?
    Peregrine says as she sits in the employee smoking section, which
    consists of three plastic white chairs and an upturned milk crate just
    outside the door to the back room. She extinguishes her cigarette on her
    boot and flicks it as far into the night as it can go. The word cubbie
    sounds ridiculous coming out of her mouth. Her dyed blue-black hair is
    twirled around in twenty buns all over her head. She is wearing a small,
    Japanese-style silk shirt with a black leather skirt. Peregrine was born
    Leila Williams in a penthouse in Manhattan. She grew up among the
    fashion elite, her mother being a celebrated designer. When it was her
    turn to take her place next to her mother's fur-clad throne, Leila moved
    to LA and renamed herself Peregrine, like the falcon. Peregrine says she
    transplanted herself here from New York to pursue a fashion career. No
    one ever questions this move, even though moving away from New York and
    her mother's connections to pursue a fashion career seems a bit
    backward. After ten years, all she has to show for her dream is