Plump but fit, African-American Catherine shares an apartment with her Irish-American comedian roommate Joe. He’s mad about her, but she doesn’t know it. She grew up in a racist Irish New York town, and the chip on her shoulder is heavier than a bus. He comes from narcissistic parents, who barely knew he existed. They’ve both got issues. Can the gap be bridged?
Related Essay: “The Fable of the Money and the Pillow”
Sometimes, what you’re looking for is standing right in front of you. What is the blinding agent?
Note to customers: Once you complete the transaction, you will be forwarded to a thank-you page, where you can download the story to your device.
Catherine was a hefty gal, with a surly disposition—but she was a hell of a good cook. Her roommate Joe had a penchant for rainy days, slasher films, and unfiltered Camels, but he always managed to rev up the crowds at the comedy club on Thursday nights. Joe liked the way she walked around the apartment in a fitted muscle t-shirt and panties—always black—that showed off her taut behind. Even though she constantly worked on shedding that extra 25 pounds (and bitched about having to), the extra weight didn’t bother him at all. Her bulges weren’t sloppy, because she regularly went up against the guys over at the boxers’ club down on 59th Street.
At first he had assumed she was a lesbian, but that theory went out the door, thanks to the periodic bed-squeaks, male grunts and squeals of pleasure emanating from her side of the apartment. He had also learned to keep his comments to himself about the guys who came through, stayed the night, then left after a quick cup of coffee the following morning.
“He’s been back two or three times, that one. Is he a keeper?” he had asked one morning as she stood at the oven, whipping up a breakfast of scrambled eggs with mushrooms and arugula, along with a side of apple-smoked bacon.
“None of your business,” she answered, and wasn’t kidding
To continue reading, please purchase and download the story.