I sit and watch you try to sit up in bed, not because I’d mind helping, but because I love to watch you struggle. I love catching that glint of horror cross your eyes, when you realize your whopping belly is just too heavy to move without grabbing hold of the sheets for leverage.
You groan, tired and helpless, pushing yourself upright with both hands while your belly sloshes around unpredictably — a completely separate entity from you. You’re already winded. We haven’t even started the day.
“Good morning fatass” I coo, leaning in to kiss your sweat-damp temple. “Enjoy being able to get out of bed while you still can. It shouldn’t be long now.”
You shoot me a look, half blushing, half flushed from the movement, and try to get to your feet. The swaying of your body with the slightest movement is unavoidable now. You don’t walk at all; you waddle. You don’t step; you haul. All that lard packed tight onto your thighs, slapping and jostling against itself, belly dragging you downward like an anchor of pure fat.
I trail behind you as you lumber toward the bathroom, and I can’t stop smiling. The way every inch of you bounces and sways. The slow, rhythmic harmony of your belly chafing on your thighs and the floorboards creaking is hypnotic. And when you finally pull yourself into the shower and plop down onto the shower chair, you let out a huff that can only be interpreted as a sigh of relief. Because we both know you barely made it.
When you come out, you use your gut to ground the towel in place around your waist, and you sit on the edge of the toilet. I hand you your socks and wait. Watch. You try to lift your leg to cross your ankle over your knee, but your belly presses up into your chest. You have to lean back to breathe multiple times, and I can’t hide the fact that your immense struggle at the simple task of putting on socks is making me squirm with pleasure. You roll them half on and you’re left red-faced and gasping. I can see the sweat pooling at your collarbone.
“You ever think about how permanent this is?” I say as I pinch a lump of your triple chin between my fingers. “How this isn’t weight you can ever lose? It’s your whole life now. You’re never getting smaller. There’s no ‘bouncing back.’ Your body is ruined, baby. Completely useless except to me. And all because you're such a hopeless, impotent glutton.
One day you’ll wake up, try to get out of bed, and realize the only thing you’re capable of is wiggling your fingers. You won’t even see it coming.”
