Fat Girls

So she says: what if I go to some type of rehab place? Do you think that’ll do it?

Her long, black hair is tied in a bun. She’s wearing her thin reading glasses, short squared shorts, and no shirt. I mean no shirt, no top, no bra—nothing. Her bronzed stomach shows her very tight abs. Her chest is broad, her breasts small, and her shoulders are covered with freckles. It’s summer, and even though it’s nighttime, there’s still light outside. A sunray comes through the kitchen window; this makes her cover the right lens of her glasses with one hand, while she continues to stir the vegetables in the boiling water with the other hand.

I say come on, Jill. Rehab? I grin. I shake my head. She looks at me through the steam. She throws some dried herbs into the vegetables. She says I’m serious, some type of de-thinking rehab, I don’t know what they’re called, but I bet they exist. She pauses. She repeats: I bet they exist. She says: you have no idea how I feel right now, Albert. You have no idea what this weekend’s been like. She pauses. She says: Tim called on Friday, you know? Just to see how I was doing, he said. But I knew he wanted something else. He only calls me when he wants something. And then I said I was fine, and then he asked if he could come pick up the mountain house keys, cause he’d decided to go to the mountain house for the weekend with Dory and the kids. Well, I gave him the keys, of course. After all, it was our parents’ house, and now it’s ours, both mine and Tim’s, you know? But he didn’t even invite me to go spend the weekend with them. He didn’t even think of it! You see that, don’t you, Albert? She says. The sunrays don’t bother her anymore. She turns the kitchen light on. She says: this is ridiculous, really. This whole weekend’s been ridiculous. I didn’t even bake those cakes someone ordered for tomorrow. Who the hell wants four cakes on a Monday, anyway? And I haven’t even started! I don’t want it to be Monday yet. I have to get up so early tomorrow, and I probably won’t even go to the studio because I have to bake those cakes instead. And then directly to the zoo. You know that song, Monday Monday? I hate it. I hate Mondays.

I say: I hate Mondays too. I’m sorry for your weekend.

At least you had a cool weekend, she says. You’re so lucky, I wish I would have gone on vacation like you. You’re lucky you could just be happy all weekend and drink with your friend and look at the sea and party and mess around. She sighs.

I also had some bad moments, I say. Like what? she says, looks at the pot, and turns off the stove. I don’t know, I say. You’re gonna think I’m crazy, I say. But I think I want to be a fireman now. Oh, she says. She takes a piece of zucchini out of the pot, tries it, and shrugs. Then, she seems to think about something, and scratches her shoulder. She opens a drawer, takes out a couple bags of whole wheat flour, a bag of brown sugar, oil, nuts, and some other stuff. From the fridge she takes carrots and eggs. I watch her do all this. I watch her bare shoulders move. I watch her freckles. Why a fireman? she asks.

I respond. I say that I think I would be able to have the perfect life, you know? No sitting in front of a computer all day, no suits, no clients. I could exercise without even going to the gym. Firemen are always exercising. And I’d only have to work two days a week. Twenty four hours, yeah, but five days off, you know? Not five days of work like now. Five days to do whatever I like, read, meet people… And Bob told me some firemen can even make up to a hundred grand a year.

Nice, she says, as she pulls out two bowls from the cabinet beside the fridge. I know, I say. Life would be perfect, I say.

Jill puts the reading glasses over her head, washes her hands, and begins to grate the carrots.

I don’t think so, Albert, she says. Why? I ask. I think that you’re just depending on an outside thing to make yourself feel better, she responds. She says, You said that to me once, remember? When I said that if only Luke hadn’t appeared, everything would be perfect. (She hadn’t said Luke’s name for months already. Almost half a year, I think.) You’re right, I say, I did say that once. Well, she says, there you go. She asks, Do you want some soup? She’s now finished grating the carrots, and is pouring the other ingredients into the bowls. She doesn’t use measuring cups. When all the ingredients are inside, she mixes them with a wooden spoon. No thanks, I say. (I’ve never really liked soup.)

It’s just like what I thought today, too, she says. So I was in bed at five pm, I didn’t get up until about seven today, I don’t know, I think I’m depressed or something, Albert, really. I’m not kidding on the rehab. And I started thinking about these people I know, like Tim and Dory, for example, or the other zoo guides, or this teenage couple who comes to watch the hippos every Tuesday afternoon, you know? They just come to the zoo and watch hippos after school. I was thinking about all of them, and I tell you I started to think that maybe I need that.

What do you mean? I ask. Jill confuses me sometimes.

She says, I just need to be a simple person with a simple mind. Maybe I should even stop dancing for a while. I thought that a couple hours ago in bed. Not even touch the studio for some weeks, call and tell them I’m sick or something and stop dancing for a while.

You need a boyfriend, I say.

Yeah! That’s what I’m saying. Maybe I just need a simple guy, someone to eat with, someone to have sex with, someone to talk bullshit with, you know? All my friends are married now, even my younger brother has kids already, and look at me, falling for these ridiculously deep men like Luke. (She says the name again.) But then I thought no. No, Jill, I said to myself. I wanna learn how to be simple by myself, you know?

I get you, I say, even though I’m not really listening. I’m thinking of fires. Then, I think of the girl I met this weekend on the bar at the beach. She wasn’t that pretty. She was ok. But I didn’t even make a move on her. I wish I could go back and just tell her I’m a fireman and tell her I can light her fire or something, I don’t know, buy her a drink, get on with it.

Jill stops mixing, and pours the mixed ingredients into four separate cake pans. The sky is now dark, and there’s a moth playing with the kitchen’s very white light. When she finishes pouring the mixture, Jill looks for something on top of the refrigerator. She finds it. It’s a shirt. She puts it on. Enough nakedness, she says. She sighs again. And then she says well, at least I’m already making the cakes. She turns on the oven.

I say (I don’t really know why I say this): only fat girls like me. She looks at me. I look at the floor. I say, yeah. Even in school, my friends used to tease me with that, with the fat girls, I mean. They called me Falbert. The gorgeous Falbert or something.

I don’t say anything else. Jill doesn’t say anything, either.

Then, she starts to laugh. I look at her. She takes some flour from one of the bags, and throws it at me. I smile. I take some flour and throw it back at her. The flour fight lasts some minutes. We end up laughing on the floor, which is now covered by a brownish white coating. Whole wheat flour and a bit of brown sugar, I think. The moth continues to play with the light. Jill throws her legs upwards. I try to do the same, but fail. I’m not a dancer. Jill stands up, and starts putting the raw cakes into the oven. She says: Then maybe you should start liking fat girls, then. Or fat women. They’re so much better than skinny ones, anyway.

I, still on the floor, just look at the moth and the light, and, once again, try to throw my legs upwards, like Jill did a moment ago. But I can’t. So I just throw my arms upwards instead, close my eyes, and I say yeah, maybe. Maybe you’re right.