You Give Good Love

by J. J. Murray

  He kissed her. “Dish soap.”

  “I haven’t done dishes in a while.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get you the biggest bottle they have. You’re going to need it.”

  Hope watched him go first to the futon, where he petted Whack.

  Whack became a chain saw.

  He opened the door. “Remember: Do as much nothing as you can.”

  “Bye.”

  He closed the door.

  Hope wept.

  I know I did this to myself, I know that, but there has to be a mistake! I’m putting on weight. I’m fattening up again. I want this man so badly. I had a healthy sexual appetite before. Where did it go? Why is it hiding? I have a man who should send me into sheer ecstasy with a single kiss. I want my plumbing to work now. I don’t care if I have an orgasm. I only want to feel him inside me and not have it hurt either of us.

  I want to be a whole person again.

  Hope dried her eyes on the quilt and left her bed, the apartment noticeably warmer. She went into the kitchen and looked in the freezer. Ah. Here’s some antidepression medication. Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Dublin Mudslide, Karamel Sutra, and New York Super Fudge Chunk. Dylan said no portion control, so . . .

  She opened all four containers and set them in a row on the kitchen table. She took out a spoon and sampled from each one. Karamel Sutra is extremely naughty. Chunky Monkey makes me want to do the funky monkey. I want to smear Dublin Mudslide all over Dylan and lick it off. If I ate anymore of this Super Fudge Chunk, I’d dream in four dimensions. I’m eating booty food. Wait. Dylan said I had a sexy derriere. I’m eating sexy derriere food.

  I am officially high on sugar.

  She returned the ice cream to the freezer and stood in front of her TV. Here’s more nothing waiting to happen. She wiped the dust off the screen with a paper towel and tuned in to a Lifetime Movie Network movie called Dark and Deadly, the promo hyping: “A successful stockbroker meets the woman of his dreams . . . and his nightmares.” Oh good. A stockbroker is going to die. Maybe the economy will improve.

  She snuggled under her covers and waited for the suspense to kill her.

  It didn’t.

  Where’s the dark and deadly woman? That woman is white, and how deadly can she be? She’s short and tiny. Oh, the acting is atrocious, and the plot is laughable. The commercials have better acting in them. Where’s the suspense? Oh, right. The cops will never know it was you because you’re so innocent looking with your makeup perfect all the time. You have evil eyes, vooman. The stockbroker isn’t even cute. He sighs too much, he wears the same suit in every scene, and he has to be the dumbest man on the planet. She just shot at you “on accident” and you forgive her? They should have called this Blanc et Stupide.

  Hope rubbed her stomach. I’m stuffed. I won’t be able to eat lunch when Dylan comes back. She yawned. Why am I so drowsy? I shouldn’t be. I just ate four times the daily requirement of sugar. I should be wired enough to run the New York marathon. She took off her glasses and laid them on top of her clock radio. I’ll just rest my eyes for a little while . . .

  Hope’s lower lip was buzzing in her dream. It was as if a piece of sandpaper were tapping it again and again . . .

  Hope woke to see Whack pawing at her face, the buzzer sounding from near the door. She found her glasses. One-thirty? I’ve been out for three hours.

  She stumbled out of bed and stood at the intercom. “Sorry, Dylan, I was asleep.”

  “Delivery from Basil Pizza.”

  Hope didn’t recognize the voice. “I didn’t order a pizza.”

  “Hope, buzz me in.”

  It still didn’t sound like Dylan. “Who are you?”

  “It’s Dylan,” he said. “I’m holding a couple bags in my teeth.”

  “Oh.” She buzzed him in.

  Hope had the door open when Dylan came up the steps wearing a large backpack. He balanced the pizza and two other boxes with his hands, two plastic bags dangling from his mouth.

  “Do you want me to take the bags?” she asked.

  “Take the boxes,” he mumbled.

  Hope took the boxes, and Dylan grabbed the bags. “Whew,” he said. “That was a workout.” He kissed her cheek. “Sleep well?”

  Hope thought about setting the boxes on the kitchen table but turned and took them to the bed. “Are you going on a hike?”

  Dylan took a large bottle of dish soap from one of the bags and set it on the counter, immediately running water in the sink. “Sort of.” He took a scale from the other bag and headed to the washroom as the sink filled. “Let’s see what you weigh.”

  Let’s not.

  Hope walked into the washroom and pushed Dylan out. “I’d rather you didn’t know.” She closed the door and stood on the scale. One-oh . . . two. That can’t be right. She stepped off the scale until the needle returned to zero. It’s a new scale. Maybe it needs to loosen up. She stepped onto the scale. One-oh-two again. That can’t be! I know I’ve gained some weight this week. I gained at least a pound today alone. She bounced up and down on the scale, the needle twitching. Still one-oh-two.

  She sat on the edge of the tub. That means I . . . I might have been less than one hundred pounds last week. She put her head in her hands. I could have died walking to or from work. My heart could have given out. She blinked several tears away. Dylan came along at the exact right moment, but I’m still in danger. She looked up at the ceiling. There’s a pizza outside with my name on it. She wiped her eyes with a towel. Thank You, God. Please bless all food I eat from now on and make it stick to my bones. Amen.

  She opened the door and ran to the bed, sliding under the covers. She flipped open the pizza box first. “What kind is it?”

  Dylan was in the kitchen washing the frying pan. “Wild mushroom with goat cheese.”

  That wouldn’t have been my first choice, but . . . She opened the next, smaller box. French fries? From a pizza place? Funny. She dipped one in a plastic container of white sauce. Oh, that’s sinful. “What kind of fries are these?”

  “Basil fries,” he said, drying a plate. “The sauce is garlic truffle mayo and parmesan.”

  I may lick the little container. She opened the last box and found a clear plastic container holding a Caesar salad drenched in dressing.

  Whack jumped onto the bed.

  “You smell the anchovies in the dressing, too, don’t you?” she whispered, shooing her away.

  Dylan kicked off his shoes as he came to the bed. “I hope this lunch is satisfactory.” He pulled a slice of pizza from the box, folded it, and took a huge bite. “Mmm. The crust is excellent.”

  Hope dipped a fry in the sauce and held it up to his lips. “Try this.”

  Dylan inhaled the entire fry. “Tasty.” He chewed for a moment. “Everything okay?”

  Hope dipped two fries in the sauce. “Yes.” No. I’m lucky to be alive. I just had a brush with death in my washroom. “Are the cards in the mail?”

  He nodded. “And I checked the sales numbers, too. You’re going to be busy Monday.”

  “Good.”

  He finished his slice and opened the salad container, unwrapping a spork. “How’d the weigh-in go?”

  “It went.” Not now! Tears have to be the worst uninvited guests. “It went badly.”

  Dylan massaged her leg. “It’ll get better. Eat some pizza.” He stabbed the spork into the salad. “What have you been doing?” He stuck a huge leafy bite into his mouth.

  It’ll get better, eat some pizza. “I start crying, I tell you my weigh-in went badly, and all you can do is say, ‘Eat some pizza’?”

  He nodded. “I also said it’ll get better. Eat some pizza and some fries and some salad. Did you have some ice cream while I was gone?”

  “Yes, I did, but listen, Dylan,” Hope said. “I was probably under one hundred pounds the day you met me.”

  “Wow,” he said. “I was over twenty-five pounds off. I need to get my eyes checked. I should have swept you off your feet to
weigh you then. I still might have been off by a couple pounds.”

  She picked up and threw a basil fry, hitting him on the chest. “Dylan, do you know how serious that is? I am five-nine, and I weighed less than one hundred pounds that day. I could be dead.”

  Dylan picked the fry off his shirt and ate it. “Needs more basil, and could you dip it deeper in the sauce next time? I paid extra for a double portion.”

  She soaked a fry in the sauce and drew it back, the sauce dripping onto the quilt. “Dylan, you’re not hearing me. I could be dead.”

  Dylan opened his mouth. “Ahh.”

  She flicked the fry forward but held onto it, the sauce striping Dylan’s shirt. “Are you even listening to me?”

  He dabbed at a glob of sauce and sucked his finger. “That is good sauce. Save some for me. Eat your fry.”

  Hope dipped the fry in the sauce. “Dylan, you’re really starting to—”

  “You’re here now, Hope,” Dylan interrupted. “You’re here now.” He took another slice of pizza and folded it. “And I’m here with you.”

  “But Dylan . . .”

  “Eat your fry.”

  Hope ate her fry.

  “And try some of this salad,” he said. “The romaine is fresh, and the croutons are homemade.”

  I’m here now. More tears fell. I’m here now. “Don’t eat it all,” she said.

  He slid the salad to her. “So what have you been doing?”

  Oh, just having a pity party. “Nothing,” Hope said, wiping her eyes with a napkin. “I ate some ice cream, watched the worst movie ever made, and fell asleep.” She pulled up her shirt and looked at her stomach. “Still flat.”

  “It’ll get better,” Dylan said.

  “I will have a funny shape. I’ll look like a lowercase D.” She ate several bites of the salad. “I can’t eat another bite.”

  “But I need to fatten you up, Mrs. Claus.”

  Hope picked up the rest of the fries. “Don’t tempt me.”

  He spread out his arms. “Free shot, Mrs. Claus.”

  She threw the fries, most sailing over his head and into the waiting paws of Whack.

  “I’ll never understand that one,” Hope said. “Why does Santa have to be fat? What kind of a message are we sending our children? That it’s okay to become obese in time for Christmas? The reindeer have to get hernias flying his fatness around.”

  Dylan ate the fries around him. “A fat Santa is a jolly Santa.”

  “All fat people aren’t jolly.”

  “True.” He waved the last fry in the air. “I think it’s all because of Santa’s suit. It only comes in one size. He has to fill it or it will cause too much wind resistance when he’s flying.”

  Hope smiled. “That is a seriously word theory.”

  “It’s not a word theory,” he said, sliding closer. “It’s scientific law.” He rubbed her stomach. “You can rest from eating now. By Thanksgiving, I want to be able to pinch an inch down here. Have you always been slender and svelte?”

  “For the most part,” Hope said, pulling her shirt higher. “I had a little baby fat when I went to college.”

  “Where?” Dylan asked.

  “Where you’re rubbing.”

  “I will stop rubbing then.” He lifted his hands.

  “No,” Hope said. “Don’t stop. It feels good.”

  Dylan rubbed slowly, barely touching her. “You have sexy little hairs down here. They all stand up when my hand goes by.”

  She yanked her shirt down. “I’m glad my little hairs are so entertaining.” She pushed his hand away. “What will we do all day that doesn’t involve analyzing my physical defects?”

  “What defects?” He kissed her. “You’re perfect.”

  Hardly.

  “Now, Miss Hope, it is important that you do nothing and do it well, and you have to do it while burning as few calories as possible.” He took out a memo pad. “I did some research on this.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not.” He flipped a few pages. “Did you know that at your weight you burn forty-five calories an hour sleeping? How long did you sleep?”

  “About ninety minutes.”

  “That’s sixty-seven calories,” Dylan said. “How much TV did you watch?”

  “About two hours.”

  He frowned. “Watching TV burns seventy-two calories an hour, which, by the way, is the same number of calories burned while kissing for an hour.”

  Who figures this stuff out? “Where did you get these numbers?”

  “From Discovery Health, a very reputable website,” he said. “How long is your walk to work, and how long does it normally take you?”

  “About two and a half miles in just under forty minutes. Why?”

  Dylan did some figuring on his pad. “You burn over three hundred calories every day walking.”

  “That’s all? You would think it would be more.” Five hours of watching TV burns more calories than walking five miles?

  “Work is what really knocks you back,” he said. “You’re on your feet all day, walking back and forth between machines, rarely sitting. You burn about one thousand calories there. Add it up and you need at least seventeen hundred calories just to maintain your weight from walking, working, and sleeping for eight hours.”

  “So what you’re saying is . . . what exactly?”

  “You want to put on weight gradually, right?” Dylan asked.

  Hope nodded.

  “In order to do that, you have to eat more calories than your body burns. A pound of fat is equal to thirty-five hundred calories.”

  That’s a lot of calories.

  “To gain, say, two pounds a week, you need to eat an extra seven thousand calories a week above what you burn off. If you burn off, say, two thousand calories a day, you need to eat three thousand calories of food. Every day.”

  “Wow.”

  “Another key is to do only those things that burn the fewest number of calories,” Dylan said. “Sleeping is your number one priority. After that comes watching TV, sketching new cards, and kissing me. You must become an artistic, kissing couch potato to gain weight.”

  “When did you research all this?” Hope asked.

  “Today after the post office,” Dylan said, “and after I took a vigorous ten-minute shower, which for me burned sixty-eight calories.”

  Hope blinked. “You’re really into this.”

  “I’m really into you,” Dylan said.

  I want him in me. “What if our kissing leads to more? How many calories did we burn last night?”

  He flipped several pages. “Let’s see, fifteen minutes of foreplay followed by fifteen minutes of sex will cost you . . . only sixty-four calories. Foreplay alone will cost you roughly a calorie a minute.”

  We hardly burned any calories at all last night. We will have lots of foreplay and sex when I’m able to! The “Get Busy and Gain Weight Diet” can work for me!

  She picked up the remote and scrolled through the listings.

  Dylan slid in beside her. “Find another awful movie, one that will put you to sleep.”

  Is he kidding? I’m looking for something steamy and sexy.... What’s this? Are you kidding? Again? “I can’t believe It’s a Wonderful Life is already showing.”

  “But it’s a classic,” Dylan said, moving the Basil boxes to the other side of the bed. “It’s not all about Christmas.”

  “Halloween is next week,” Hope said. “This should not be on.”

  She scrolled some more and found nothing steamy or sexy. Those kinds of movies don’t come on until later tonight. She settled for a college football game. “Perhaps you can explain American football to me. Odell tried, but he had no patience with me.” She eased between his legs and leaned back. “You’re my back rest.”

  “As long as you rest in this position and make no attempts to grind your sexy derriere on me,” Dylan said.

  “You’re no fun.”

  “I’m only thinking of your
health,” Dylan said.

  Hope sighed. “You’re the doctor.” She pointed at the screen. “Explain this game to me.”

  “American football is like Canadian football only with one fewer player a side and a smaller field,” Dylan said. “Oh, and a million silly rules designed to protect the quarterback.”

  My TV is too small to see these athletes’ sexy derrieres. This is getting me nowhere. She turned off the TV. “I’ll never understand it. I’ll just sit here then.”

  “We could talk.”

  Hope sighed. “How many calories will that burn?”

  “A small amount,” Dylan said. “Can you take off early anytime next week, say around three?”

  I’ve only taken off early once, and that was Friday. I figure if I’ve walked all that way, I had better stay and be fully paid for it. “I can.”

  “We’ll be doing lots of Halloween projects this week in art,” Dylan said. “I’d love it if you could join us. You don’t have to demonstrate or teach. Just sit and create with us. Every day from three to five.”

  I have accumulated more than one hundred paid vacation and sick days. “I’ll think about it.”

  “And afterward, I will take you out to eat,” Dylan said.

  “Don’t talk about eating.”

  Dylan kissed her cheek. “It’s for a good cause.”

  Yes, it is.

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” Dylan asked.

  “More nothing,” Hope said. “I usually nap off and on all day on Sundays, maybe do some reading. I’m really pretty boring, Dylan. I have no life. What do you do on Sundays?”

  “I go back to my old neighborhood,” he said. “To the Brownsville Recreation Center.”

  “To work out?”

  “Something like that. Want to join me?”

  In the worst way. “Sure, but we’re not walking, are we? We wouldn’t want to burn any calories.”

  “We’ll take the train most of the way there.”

  Hope checked the clock. “What are we going to do? It’s only two-thirty.”

  Dylan removed her glasses. “It’s naptime.”

  “I’ve already had a nap,” Hope said.

  “Shh.”

  “I’m not sleepy.”

  “Shh.”

  Hope closed her eyes. “I don’t want to take a nap.”