Slim to None Read Online Free PDF Page B

that damned spoon, Mortie-germs and all, and just go to town eating it in one sitting, right here, in front of my lard-averse artery-clogged boss. Show him what a real fat girl can do. He thinks I’m a Tubby McTubbster? Fine, lemme at him. He can see how us chicks with the feedbags do it. Although truthfully, I certainly would relish smashing it in his face, but could never waste such good food, what with the effort that went into preparing the thing. Let’s not forget the high quality ingredients. Thank goodness I made a second one, waiting patiently for me in the Sub-Zero at home.
    "Effective immediately, for the next six months, Barry will take over the restaurant critic posting. You can come and go as you please, but I expect one column a week from you, and you’ve got complete latitude on your subject matter."
    Whoop-tee-doo. I’ve been impeached. Well, that’s just peachy. Yummm, like those heirloom Elberta peaches from the farmer’s market on Block Island last summer. Juice that dripped down my arm with each bite I took. I made a fantastic peach tart, with black raspberry puree on a crispy bed of buttery phyllo dough. Served with a dollop of crème anglaise. Oh, if only I could transform myself back to that day. Then I wouldn’t be standing here out of a job. Well, out of my job, anyhow.
    "So that’s it, then?" I ask, my shoulders slumped in dejection. "I have no recourse?"
    Mortie shakes his head. "Not if you want to come back after your hiatus."
    I turn and slink toward the door, all too many pounds of me, feeling about as small as a woman who’s pretty much outgrown the women’s department can feel. Only right now, feeling small couldn’t feel worse.
    As I leave, Mortie softly calls my name. "Abbie?"
    Tears threaten to spring from my eyes, but I refuse to blink, denying them access. No way will I let Mortie see how hurt I am. I’m too choked up to speak, so I just look at him and cock my eyebrow.
    "Abbie, this is nothing personal. You know that? I’m doing my job—what’s best for the paper."
    Nothing personal. Yeah, right. When you’re pretty much fired for being fat, that’s personal, no matter what anyone says. "Gotcha." I say, even though I’d like to say something harsher.
    * * *
    I return home, having gathered up my laptop and not much else and hastening myself out of the building; I couldn’t bear to deal with my colleagues and their questions. Thank God Mortie told me to take a week off to collect myself before starting the column. Now if only if I could actually collect myself, no doubt I’d be too heavy to carry off wherever it was I was supposed to take me.
    The house is quiet; William is still finding himself in Jersey, apparently. I’m sure he’ll be gone all weekend, which leaves me on my own to wallow in my new reality for at least three whole days. God, being alone in this brownstone is not what I need right now. Instead of distractions, I’m left to fester in my shame. The shame of knowing that ghastly picture of me gorging my corpulent face is blanketing Manhattan. Meanwhile, I sit here thinking how much I’d love to eat something warm and comforting just to shut it all out. Something that would simply cancel out the events of the past twenty-four hours. Except I know deep down that what’s done is done: the fat cat is out of the bag.
    I know, I know, it’s not like I didn’t realize I’d physically expanded beyond acceptable societal standards. I’m the first to admit nothing I own fits me without a serious amount of physical exertion to tug it onto my body. Which then leaves me huffing and puffing, I’m so out of shape. But it’s always been my private thing. Even William has never faulted me for it. Sure, other people have probably noticed it. I see their looks when I pass them on the street. The handsome men whose gazes catch my eye for a split second, before they turn away, repulsed at what they see. Or when someone bounces off of me on a busy Manhattan sidewalk