Sleetmagazine.com

Feeder

They met at a cooking class, naturally. He filleted her steak and she tested his red wine cranberry sauce. He barely noticed that she hardly ate what they labored over. She touched his bare feet that same night.

She is concerned with the state of his hunger. More precisely, it is the absence of hunger that worries her. She owns 52 cookbooks, 32 of which have the word ‘dessert’ in their titles. Her parents didn’t teach her how to cook, but Nigella Lawson later made up for that. The consistency of warm lemon squares in her hands make her quiver with joy.

He has been spoiled by an overprotective grandmother and the age of convenience foods. His pocket money was formerly spent on candy bars and ice cream cones, now he throws the wads of cash around in shopping malls, car dealerships and at travel agents’. Her lingerie? Recently acquired. Her glitzy earrings? A Saturday night gift. As he softly caresses his stomach she stands in the kitchen whipping up a key lime pie. Honey, if you could try the chocolate banana tart I just made. He eats and finds it amenable to his (granted, not very refined) taste. She radiates satisfaction and hands him another plate. Some slices she freezes, one she nips at and then throws away.

They buy ham and cheese, eggs, bacon, full-fat milk, cookie dough, bars of chocolate, jars of jams, mountains of bread. He chews and she kisses him. She tugs in her apron and gets to work in her kitchen. He tugs in his fat and gets to work on her.

His pants are too tight now, he complains. He wants to join a gym. When he arrives at home from work she has the wine out and his sweat pants and he sighs and declares that he will go tomorrow. Will start a diet tomorrow. She hides his gym card and he comes back with unfinished businesses. She tells him it’s not so bad and offers a tablespoon full of whipped cream to go with the chocolate mousse. He wholeheartedly agrees. She wholeheartedly hides her face in his rolls and licks his salty skin.

Yes, their hearts are full, so are his plate and his lunch box and his nighttime snack pack and his stomach and his fat cells and his bank account and his arteries. And on a Thursday he steps out into the icy cold November night after dinner and suddenly he cannot breathe. He grabs his chest because it is in flames, it must be, he is burning, he is dying and he cries out and falls down and she runs outside and calls 911.

After the funeral in the over-sized coffin she continues to wear black. She sits down on a bench at Peake Lake. Ducks run towards her with impatient sounds. They request a feeding. Just as she offers the first one, a male, the brownie bite, a childish boy states from the sidelines: “You should not feed the birds. They can get sick and die.” The kid is fearless and so sure of his wisdom, out to save wildlife everywhere. She can’t help herself: her cackling laugh sends the boy running and tears into her eyes. When she finally catches her breath and wipes her eyes the brownie is gone together with the ducks.