THE FAT LADY CAN'T EVEN CARRY A TUNEn
 
by Michelle Rogge
 
 
As I type a new client's name, phone number, social security number,
and other extremely personal information into the company
computer, I see that this new client is glancing over at me and
speculating.  Speculating on my fat.  She's wondering:  if this diet
clinic is so great, why is their secretary so grotesquely fat?  She's a
bad advertisement for this place.  Was she this fat when they hired
her?  No way.  Why hasn't she been fired?
 
Actually, I've been wondering that same thing myself.  It would
probably be discrimination for them to fire me on account of my
rotundity, but I'm not really sure about that.  Don't airlines fire
stewardesses for being too fat or too old?  Maybe, I've got some
outdated information.  Some old wives' tale.  Some bored, skinny,
aerobisizing suburban wives' tale.
 
It's funny, but every time I type in information about some client,
mentally, I always picture typing in my own file -- even though I've
never actually done so.  Name:  Cassie White ( no jokes about Mama
Cass, please).  Age:  29 (although, because of my fat, I look a decade
older).  How did you hear about our clinic?  From other losers who
come here.  (Get it?  "Losers?"  Did you get the great joke I just
made?)  Why do you want to lose weight?  'Cause everyone else
wants to.  How's that for a reason?  Is it legitimate?
 
I know that I sound bitter.  A failed dieter.  Yep, that's me.  I tried the
two-day, the three-day, the two-week, the 21-day, the five-week,
etc., etc. diets.  I've depended on everything from GLAMOUR magazine
and Weight Watchers to the NATIONAL ENQUIRER for dieting tips. 
Doctors' diets.  Exercise regimes.  Failed at each and every gimmick,
method, whatever you want to call each desperate attempt to lose
weight.  And I know there's a clear reason why I failed -- if I could
just figure that out.
 
My boss, Lilith, comes out of her office and smiles a b-i-i-i-i-i-g,
professional, encouraging, empathetic, Yes,-I-was-once-fat-too 
smile at the new client.  Then, she looks at me, and an ominous little
frown creases her otherwise perfect forehead.
 
She says crisply, "Cassie, after this appointment, I'd like to speak
with you privately in my office."
 
The new client puts down the Minneapolis STAR-TRIBUNE she had been
reading and follows my soon-to-be former boss into her office.  I pick
up her newspaper and start hunting through the unemployment
section.
 
Yep, I've got that going-to-be-fired soon (and I do mean SOON)
feeling.  I'm about to be ushered into that office where Lilith has told
so many people:  "You can do it.  I can see the determination in your
eyes.  This time you're going to succeed because you're making a
change for life, not just for a month or two months.  You've made the
best decision anyone can make."
 
As I scan the columns of job listings, I realize that there are plenty of
secretarial jobs out there.  And most of them have nothing to do with
diet clinics.
 
Inevitably, however, some betraying part of myself lets my eye
wander over to the diet clinic section.  Words leap out at me:  tired of
carrying around that extra tire?  Want to look your best?  Want to
feel your best?
 
"Looking for a new job?"
 
I look up, startled, a little irritated as to who could be intruding into
my downward spiral toward a new job.  My irritation disappears
immediately, because I am absolutely mesmerized by a set of
gorgeous blue eyes, startlingly blue, with depth, surrounded by a dark
fringe we women can only try to imitate in a paltry fashion, using
glue and fake eyelashes.
 
I gasp and clutch my heart in that ridiculous way the heroines of
19th-century sentimental novels might have done.  I hope I'm not
drooling.
 
He smiles knowingly.  He appears to understand exactly the effect
he's having on me.  "I apologize -- I didn't mean to startle you.  I just
surmised that you're looking for a new job."
 
"Yes -- I guess so," I say feebly.  I'm taking in his dark, wavy hair
lined with silver, his caressing, respectful yet disrespectful smile --
the way he's looking at me -- a way that I haven't been looked at in a
long time -- as if I'm a desirable woman, as if -- get this -- as if he's
making love to me with his eyes -- nah, that's too corny, but you get
the general idea.
 
He holds out a bejeweled hand.  And I do mean bejeweled.  There are
big, ornate, yet unmistakably masculine rings on every finger except
his thumb.
 
"I'm asking because I have a secretarial position to fill -- actually, it's
more than just a secretarial position.  Let me give you my business
card."
 
He reaches into a pocket inside his suit jacket and pulls out a small
gold case designed to hold business cards.  It is right then that I
notice this man is huge -- what other people might call fat -- but I
would never apply that term to him -- he's too elegant,  too
charismatic, to be dismissed as simply fat.  He fills out his frame with
a certain pride and grace, no apology for it.
 
I look down at the business card he has handed me:  Leopold
Cavanaugh III, International Business Consultant.
 
He is watching me read his card.  "The job would be quite interesting. 
I need someone who is as interesting as the job itself.  You appear to
satisfy that requirement."
 
He wasn't asking about my qualifications -- how fast I could type,
whether or not I knew shorthand -- but I really don't care, and it
evidently doesn't interest him either.
 
Then, something occurs to me:  Leopold Cavanaugh is here, at the
MinneapoLite Diet Clinic, and yes, he is not scrawny.  Could he possibly
be here for a consultation, to admit that he is not as good as those
thin folks out there but he wants to be, to go on a diet of low-cal
shakes, MinneapoLite prepared meals, and lettuce leaves?  Some part
of me is depressed at the mere thought.  And it occurs to me that, if
this is so, for some reason not quite clear to me, I could not possibly
accept the job he was offering.
 
"Leopold."  Lilith, my beloved boss, is standing in the doorway of her
office, arms folded.  "I never expected to see you here again."
 
Leopold smiles and spreads his hands in a seemingly friendly, open
gesture.  "Lilith, it's good to see you again.  You're looking attractive -
- although you could stand to put on a few pounds.  More than a few."
 
Lilith says tensely, "Cut the crap, Leopold.  What do you want?"
 
Suddenly, Leopold is all business.  "One of my clients wants to buy out
MinneapoLite.  He's prepared to offer you a generous sum. 
Interested?"
 
"No." Lilith practically spits out the word.  "Not if you're involved,
Leopold.  Now, if you'll excuse me -- "  Lilith looks at me with that
extremely familiar crease denting her forehead.  "You can come into
my office now, Cassie."
 
Uh oh, here it comes -- the big boom, as it's called, being lowered.  I
grimace and stand up, only to have Leopold grab my left hand.
 
I look at him, and those blue eyes really do me in.  But what's more,
there's some sort of command in his eyes, a solid oak-tree look that
says:  Go ahead -- lean on me.  Draw your courage from me. 
 
For a moment, I'm not sure what I am supposed to be courageous
about.  And then it occurs to me.
 
"Lilith, I'd rather not join you in your office," I say loudly, so she can
hear me in the depths of her lion's den.
 
She comes out immediately, still frowning.
 
"You know," I say in my most helpful, Girl Friday manner, "if you keep
frowning like that, you'll get permanent wrinkles in your forehead. 
Which leads me to my next subject . . . because I don't want you to
get any nasty, ugly little frown lines, Boss, I am resigning.  What's
more, I cannot fit into the glorious but snug image of your
organization . . . . "
 
"Actually, your generously voluptuous curves will simply not fit in this
skinny woman's organization," Leopold says.
 
"Uh, yah.  What he said."  I look at Leopold gratefully.
 
"Fine."  Lilith's eyes are narrow.  "I'm sure you know what I was
about to do.  You'll get two weeks' pay and -- " she smiles, looking at
us both, "a 10% discount on one of our diet plans.  I'm sure you would
be interested in the 50-pound. plus plan?"
 
Without further ado, Lilith of the skinny body and predestined
wrinkled forehead saunters into her office and shuts the door.
 
I'm not surprised by Lilith's cruelty.  I've always known she was quite
capable of it -- although I don't suppose my slam about wrinkles was
especially kind.
 
"It's hard for me to believe I was ever in business with that woman,"
Leopold says.
 
"What business?"  I say numbly.  I'm feeling a little stunned about not
having a job.
 
"This business -- MinneapoLite.  I helped her start it.  But then I
realized how destructive it is.  Bring your coat and purse and come
with me."
 
I look at Leopold, and I hear his words, which, even though they are
commanding, also sound kind.
 
Somehow, I find the presence of mind to say:  "Where are we going?"
 
He doesn't answer, and I don't bother to pursue it.  Instead, I do as he
says and follow him out into the hallway.  He turns and looks down
into my eyes.  For the first time in my life, I feel small and well --
delicate, I guess, is the best way to describe my feeling.
 
"You are a beautiful woman," he says unexpectedly.
 
Beautiful.  I feel like crying.  I didn't know it -- I've been starved to
hear that word, waiting to hear it at least once in my lifetime.  But I
only have a little tiny space inside me to hold that generous, weighty
word, and it's overflowing, out of my guts and heart, spilling out of
my eyes, onto a fine white linen handkerchief he has taken out of his
inside breast pocket and offered to me.
 
There's something faintly ridiculous about a man carrying a
handkerchief these days; but at this moment, I'm grateful for it.  His
pomp and exaggerated courtesy are exactly what I need.
 
"Listen," he says, smiling, with what seems to be a sort of
tenderness, "I'm not going to call you Cassie.  You're Cassandra.  It's a
beautiful name, beautiful like you.  It is your real name, isn't it?"
 
"No," I say, sniffling, wishing I didn't have to appear so undignified. 
"My mother named me Cass.  I don't think she'd ever heard of the
name Cassandra."
 
"Well, we'll rename you Cassandra -- it fits you, don't you think?"
 
I sigh.  "I'm -- I'm willing to try it."  I would have jumped off cliffs or
kicked Lilith in the shins if he had asked it.
 
"When I first saw you," he muses, "I had to wonder:  what's a
beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?"
 
I smile disbelievingly, yet wanting desperately to believe his words
are genuine.
 
Leopold pulls from his gold business card case yet another card. 
"Here -- take this."
 
On the card is printed the word FATTITUDE in thick gold lettering. 
Underneath in gold italics are the words:  Develop a Fattitude,
followed by a suburban address and phone number.
 
"What's this?"
 
"A group I belong to, that I helped start, called Fattitude.  The
members are people who refuse to accept society's concept of beauty
as thinness, who refuse to apologize for their fat.  You'll find out
more about it if you come to my house this evening -- I'm holding a
gathering of Fattitude at 7 o'clock.  I would like it very much if you
would join us."
 
I look up, overwhelmed by everything that's been happening,
confused by the expression of beckoning in his eyes.  I'm afraid of it,
and yet I'm even more afraid that this expression will disappear.
 
"I'll come," I say.
 
He writes down his home address for me -- in North Oaks, naturally,
one of the rich-man's suburbs -- and then he puts away his pen, and
very deliberately holds up my chin with one hand.  Quite a feat,
actually, considering I have a double chin.  His fingers are strong,
warm, and chubby.
 
"I really do hope you'll come," he says.  "There is nothing to lose, and
everything to gain."
 
Did he really say that?
 
After Leopold leaves, I start to laugh.  There is something truly
ridiculous about his grandeur, his dramatics -- and yet I am drawn to
it, like a drab mass audience to a Hollywood movie version of a Bible
epic.  Yeah, Leopold is The Ten Commandments, Spartacus, and The
Robe  all rolled up into one magnificent man.
 
That afternoon I try on a dozen outfits, and nothing looks right.  I do
my hair different ways -- up, down, curly, straight.  And then I realize
. . . I'm doing everything I possibly can to try to hide my fat, just as
I've always done in the past.  Automatically, my eyes search the
bookshelves in my apartment, filled with magazines and books on
how to dress to appear ten pounds slimmer, ways to make your face
look slimmer with a flattering hairstyle, cosmetics that make you look
as if you have models' hollow cheeks.
 
"To hell with that," I say aloud.  After all, this group is supposedly
proud of their fat, right?  So, I'll flaunt my fat.
 
I pick out a dress that I've always loved, but which I've "outgrown." 
Even though it's two sizes too small, I put it on.  Its shiny, clinging
material emphasizes every bulge, every ounce of fat.  The color
yellow is quite flattering to my skin tones.  My bosom is straining at
the seams, spilling out over the top of the neckline in a fairly obscene
way.  I pull back my hair in a chignon, drawing attention to my large
eyes as well as my double chin.
 
I put on my grandmother's jewels -- a matching necklace, bracelet,
and earrings -- only rhinestones, but arranged in an antique setting --
definitely attention-getting.
 
"No one is going to overlook me," I say a little ruefully to the mirror. 
Actually, I do look good.  The big difference is:  I'm not trying to blend
into the wall.  It feels strange.  I'm not wearing black.  I'm not
covering my arms.  I'm not trying to hide my body.  And I realize, that
while I may feel strange, I'm also feeling good about my appearance -
- something I haven't felt since my preteen years.
 
As I get ready to leave, my eyes go to my bookshelves again.  On an
impulse, I grab the diet and thin-worship books and magazines and
thrown them in a massive heap into the garbage.
 
When I arrive at Leopold's house, I am intimidated.  His house is quite
impressive -- something I would never dream of attaining for myself. 
It's mansion-size; hell, it is a Victorian mansion in brick.  It sort of
matches my jewels.  I finger my necklace nervously for reassurance
as the butler -- Jesus, the butler  --  lets me in.
 
"Good evening, Miss White," he says, bowing slightly.  "My name is
Robert."
 
"You can call me Cassie -- Cassandra," I say, impressed that he knows
my last name.  "How ya' doing this evening, Robert?"
 
"Quite well.  Thank you -- Miss White.  Please follow me."  Robert
doesn't ask how I'm doing.
 
The first thing that  registers on me when I enter what the butler
calls the drawing room is the elegance of the furnishings -- Cupids
and ornately carved furniture and chandeliers and oceans of cream-
colored carpeting.  And then I notice -- the place is filled with fat
people -- just fat people -- but not just any fat people --rich  fat
people milling about, eating from gold-rimmed plates, drinking what
looks like champagne from -- I'm betting -- lead crystal glasses. 
Maybe rich people don't have to worry about the lead content in
anything.
 
Fat, rich, sleek-looking people, draped in expensive clothes, the
women insulated with perfumes I have never been able to afford to
buy.
 
Looking across the room, I see Leopold talking to a gorgeous,
voluptuous blonde in a nude-colored, shimmering gown.  I look down
at myself and realize that, fat or thin, my clothes would be termed
gaudy and cheap.  I eye the doorway I came in, wondering if I should
try to slip out now.
 
Leopold comes toward me, smiling.  He whispers in my ear,
"Cassandra, you put all of the other women in this room to shame. 
You look like a young Elizabeth Taylor."
 
Even if his words were simply a kind falsehood, I choose to believe
them.  I walk around the room with him as he introduces me to
everyone.  It becomes an evening that I will never forget, in which I
realize that my fat is not only accepted, but admired.  I'm so excited
that I can barely eat, even though the foods offered to me are quite
enticing.  I'm delirious, because Leopold is treating me as his
cherished guest, his date, whatever.  He could have treated me like a
servant, and I still would have followed him around, begging to refill
his glass with champagne; but instead, I was his equal, and more,
somehow.
 
As the guests are beginning to leave, he takes my arm and murmurs: 
"Please stay.  I want to talk to you alone."
 
How could I refuse?  Whoever I am -- fat girl, thin girl, -- rose in a
clamor, to say nonchalantly:  "Sure.  I'll stick around."
 
The guests leave.  My heart is starting this rapid beating, and I cannot
control it.  Holy cow.
 
He dismisses his servants, he takes me to what appears to be his
private quarters, and then he talks to me for hours.  I don't hear much
of what he's saying, because I am lost in his eyes and the way he is
holding me as we sit on his sofa.  Words come and go.  "I will teach
you to revel in your fat . . . I want you to learn to love and accept the
beautiful voluptuousness of your body. . . . we will worship our flesh .
. . we will be together day in and day out . . . . you will be my partner,
body and soul ."  He paints a picture of a life intertwined, and I am
lost in the picture he paints.  I can do nothing but accept, fall into that
picture most agreeably.  It is too irresistible.
 
Here, I cannot go on.  I must stop this part of the story, because it is
private.  It is private and erotic, with pink lighting and mirrors and
shimmering veils and --oh yeah -- whipped cream -- but I'm revealing
more than I should.  Sorry.
 
			. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
 
The months fly by.  I am Leopold's private secretary.  I am his hostess
for parties.  I am his lover.  And I am deliriously happy, as I could
never have dreamed of being.  Through Leopold's love and guidance, I
have learned to accept my fat, and even, as he says,  "revel" in it.
 
In fact, I am so happy with myself that I am no longer interested in
stuffing myself with food.  I find that I do not need to comfort myself
with food any longer.  I have Leopold.  So, a funny thing begins to
happen.  I start to lose weight naturally.
 
You would think Leopold would be the first to comment on this
change.  But he says nothing.  Instead, I hear it from other people. 
My politically incorrect friends say:  "Wow, you're losing weight.  You
look great!"  My Fattitude friends say, "You're looking a little thin, my
Dear.  Have some chocolates."
 
But I find I cannot eat excessively anymore.  I have to buy new
clothes, because the old clothes no longer fit.  I look in the mirror, and
I see a smaller me emerging.  But, interestingly enough, it makes no
difference to me.  I am happy with myself, in whatever stage of "fat"
or "thin" I'm in.   I have the love of a wonderful man, with whom I am
head over heels in love -- what more could I want?  No food -- no
matter how rich or sweet -- could ever take the place of the
sensation of his arms embracing me, his lips on mine.  He is a banquet,
and I would rather dine on him than any delicacy the best chefs in
France could dream up.
 
For a few weeks or so, Leopold has been gone on a business trip. 
When he returned yesterday, he was too tired to make love. 
Disappointed as I was, I could understand.  But today, I thought I
would surprise him.
 
I leave the office early to go to Leopold's house.  I want to present
him with a cookbook I'd found, filled with Italian recipes for cooking
chicken.  And then it is my intention to put on a sexy new nightgown I
had purchased.
 
No doubt you can guess what's coming.  I wish I could have guessed. 
I would never have entered that boudoir of his.
 
I walk in  to find Leopold in bed with that blonde I saw him with at
that first Fattitude gathering.  Leopold's barrel chest rises out of the
satin sheets.  The blonde has one beautifully rounded ivory-pink arm
wrapped possessively around him.  They are drinking champagne,
sweating a little -- no, glowing, --  from their completed exertions. 
Behind them, above the bed, hangs a reproduction of a Titian painting,
of frolicking fat women, sensuous and ripe.  It is such an elegant
scene.
 
Leopold sees me.  I walk out of the room without a word.
 
Strangely, he doesn't call my name or try to stop me in any way.  I go
home,  close all the curtains, and sit in darkness, awaiting his call. 
There is none.  I do not go into the office the next day.  I continue to
sit in the darkness of my apartment, miserable, tormenting myself by
reliving that bedroom scene.  There is still no phone call.
 
The mail comes.  To my surprise, there is a letter from my old boss,
Lilith, at MinneapoLite.  She wants me to come in and pick up some
things I had left there.  Yeah, right.  Like I'd ever want to see her
scrawny ass again.
 
About an hour later, a messenger delivers a letter from Leopold.  It is
written on his gold crested stationery, in his graceful, flowing hand.
 
"My Dear Cassandra, I must apologize for -- shall we say -- my
indiscretion?  I certainly never meant to hurt you in this fashion. 
Dear me, this sounds trite, even rather sordid.  But I must tell you
now, and I'm terribly sorry I waited to do so.  I cannot continue our
liaison.  I am no longer attracted to you in that all-important way.  As
you know, I worshiped your sweet fat.  I loved sleeping with you,
eating with you (when I could get you to do so).  But I do not love
your boniness, my Dear.  There are plenty of men out there who I
know would.  And so I must end our relationship -- and you have no
idea how much I regret it -- and I must also ask you to resign from
your secretarial position.  You will, of course, be generously
compensated, with one year's salary.  Again, I am so sorry, my
Darling.  Leopold."
 
I draw back the curtains on one living room window and sit down
numbly in a chair, staring out the window.  I watch day turn into
night.
 
The man does not even have the decency to jilt me in person.
 
I stare at the books on my shelves, all celebrating fat, the beauty of
fat.
 
On an impulse, I rush to the full-length mirror in my bedroom, the
mirror in which I've many a time agonized over the rolls of fat on my
body.  Now, I agonize over my appearance once more, seeing this thin
woman as ugly, ugly ugly!
 
What I have always wanted to achieve my entire life stares back at
me, unwanted.  And what I truly want, what made me happy, is lost to
me.
 
Or is it?
 
I leave the bedroom and go to my kitchen, an idea forming.  I open my
kitchen cupboard.   Inside is a forgotten package of Ding Dongs.  I
open another cupboard, and there is a blessed bag of potato chips.  I
have never seen such a beautiful sight.
 
I take down the bag eagerly and rip it open.  I lift a chip to my mouth
and pause.  I stand there for several minutes, staring at this fatty,
fried, crunchy version of a potato.  It is simply food -- bad food --
and yet, it has always been so much more to me.
 
Now it is just a potato chip.  I realize, finally, I do not really want 
it.  
 
The next day, I shower, get dressed, slap on some make-up, and go to
the MinneapoLite Clinic.  I've decided I'm dying to hear what Lilith has
to say.
* * * * * *
 
I notice immediately that the MinneapoLite receptionist is a little bit
on the chunky side.  I wonder if she was fat before she got here, or if
she gained weight while working at the clinic.  I wonder how long it
will be before she is fired.
 
She calls Lilith on the intercom and announces I'm here.  After a few
moments, I am ushered into her office.
 
Lilith comes forward and shakes my hand, smiling.  "My god -- Cassie,
you look incredible!  You're so thin."
 
"Thanks," I say in glum monotone.  "What'd you want me to pick up?"
 
She looks at me sharply, then takes a Tupperware container out of the
desk where I used to sit.  "You left a coffee cup and this thing.  It was
full of stale, old candy, so I dumped it out."
 
"That's fine," I say, taking the cup and the container from her
outstretched hands.  I manage to stuff the coffee cup in my bag.
 
Her eyes narrow in speculation.  "I wondered if this might happen --
you losing weight.  I just had a feeling.  He has dumped you, hasn't
he?  Because you're thin."
 
"I don't want to get into it, Lilith," I answer, wincing.  Part of me still
hasn't completely accepted Leopold's rejection.
 
"Listen," she says, "the same thing happened to me."
 
"What happened?"  I ask, not sure what she means.
 
"Leopold dumped me too.  Once upon a time Leopold was thin -- I bet
you didn't know that.  I was so flattered when he paid attention to
me, this homely fat girl.  At least, that's how I saw myself then.  Then
he and I started this business together.  I got thin, following the
MinneapoLite Diet, and Leopold, interestingly enough, got fat.  The
thinner I got, the fatter he got."
 
Lilith's watch beeps.  "Say -- it's my snack time.  Why don't come into
my office while I fix it?"
 
She knows I am fascinated by this whole sordid tale.  I follow her into
her office and sit down in one of her heavy-duty client chairs,
designed to hold folks pushing maximum capacity.  She takes a ripe
banana off the shelf and cuts it neatly in half with a sharp knife.
 
"Now, understand, I didn't mind his fat.  I never criticized him for it,
although I would encourage him to try the meals and to exercise with
me.  He never would, of course.  And then one day --"
 
She pauses, as she chopped the banana into slices so thin they're
practically translucent.  Then she pulls a carton of diet non-dairy
whipped cream out of the mini-fridge in the corner of the office and
applies a single, carefully measured teaspoonful to the banana slices.
 
"Then one day, he announced that he wanted out of the business and
out of our relationship.  We argued about it.  I pleaded, begged for
him to reconsider.  It was useless.  The next day," she says, bitterness
creeping into her tone, "I saw him on the arm of a fat girl with big
boobs.  I knew it was officially over."
 
She glances over at me.  "Does it sound familiar?"
 
"A little," I admit.
 
Lilith sits down in her chair and delicately scoops out a single slice of
banana, with a tiny dab of fake whipped cream.  She eats it very
slowly.
 
"I have to admit -- I didn't call you in because of that candy in your
drawer.  I wanted to see if -- if things had changed with you."
 
"They certainly did," I say sourly.
 
"You know," she says, " I have an idea.  Why don't you come back to
work at MinneapoLite, as a dietary consultant?  It'll be good pay,
considerably more than you got as a receptionist."
 
Looking at her thin, eager face, I can't help seeing how lonely Lilith 
is. 
She doesn't need a dietary consultant, really.  She wants
companionship.  I try to imagine working with her again, counseling
all these lonely, hungry people on how to alter their physical
appearance.
 
And I can't help seeing how the scales are tipped.  Be fat, get hired as
a lowly receptionist.  Get fatter, get fired.  Get thin and get rehired,
this time in a professional position -- the reward for being virtuously
thin.
 
"No, Lilith," I say at last.  "It would be more like a Leopold's-Jilted-
Girlfriends Club than a diet business.  But thanks for the offer."
 
As I leave with my Tupperware container tucked under one arm, I
glance back and see Lilith slowly, sensuously sucking away on her
banana and fake whipped-cream delicacy.  I bet she'll make it last a
good half hour.
 
THE END