Softness ensues

chapter 1

You always prided yourself on food. Not how much you could eat—your knowledge of different cultures and dishes, what spice builds what taste, all that. In reality, you ate very little. You'd eat half a plate at a restaurant before complaining it was too much and forking it over to me (not that I minded). Nor did you have a sweet tooth. Anything with too much sugar was too cloying, too sharp and acidic a taste. We'd cook or bake together and you'd strip the sugar out of whatever recipe we were using. But still food was how you defined yourself.

There were some signs though. Butter was the first. I've never seen someone burn through so many sticks so fast. Almost every dish you liked had butter in it, and you never skimped. You cooked eggs with butter, then buttered the toast that went with them. You joked that fat was the healthiest part of any food; you scoffed at fearful dieters. You got offended at the idea of low-fat yogurt or milk. Nothing made you happier than milk or cream. You came home crooning about the cafeteria desserts that consisted only of a poundcake drowned in a bowl of custard or cream.

I had my own ideas about healthy food, but I was happy to put them to the side to cook with you. It was much more fun, and I could still sneak sweets on the side when you weren't looking or were out. I was, in fact, nervous to eat in front of you because of how little you did. What would you think? (You later told me you didn't mind my love handles.) You ran regularly too—all the things I didn't have the heart to do.

So no one was more surprised than me when I noticed you one dinner, barely finishing your plate, discreetly unbuttoning your pants under the table. You didn't make a big thing of it, but you seemed so satisfied to have it over and done with. You sighed and kept eating. I wondered how the thin layer of soft fat that had settled on you could be so restricting. How thin could it—and you—be?

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Intending this as a work in progress! This is a placeholder chapter. —letterspace