You glance over at me a few times as we amble down the sidew..

You glance over at me a few times as we amble down the sidewalk, only half-listening to what I’m saying—something about food—in favor of just enjoying the sound of my voice. I sound happy. I look happy. It’s been a month now, since I showed up uninvited on your doorstep. A month of weekly visits, occurring like clockwork every Saturday morning, with me showing up on your doorstep, still looking like a kid on a date, although you try to disavow yourself of this notion. It’s hard, though, when I always have my hair done and my eyes all earnest, and i usually have some little offering tucked under my elbow. A dozen donuts in a bakery box; a six pack of dark beer; fresh bagels and coffee. At first, you had hesitated every time I handed over whatever I’d brought with me, but I had always just waved off your concerns and shoved over whatever form of carbs I had happened to have brought that day. Today, though, is the first time we’ve done something besides sit in your little apartment, locked away from the world. It’s just a walk, a short ambling stroll to and from the coffee shop a few blocks down from your house, but it feels like it’s bigger than that; more significant. This is what normal people do. They go get coffee on weekend mornings, basking in spring sunshine. It’s bright, the sky an endless sea of blue. It’s the kind of day that makes you squint, makes you want to tug your jacket off even though it’s still 50 degrees. It’s beautiful. And it feels good, you walking up the sidewalk next to me, past all these pretty old mansions. They’re full of apartments now, quirky old buildings full of students and poor families, artists and couples. I like it here. You adjust your grip on your caramel mocha, watching the steam rise into the air. It’s sugary-sweet and rich, the exact opposite of the Americano I’m holding. You wonder if I ever thought about that contrast; if I noticed it the way you had when we’d placed our orders. It’s such a classic Nico thing to do, to order the blackest, bitterest stuff on the menu, as if I’m doing penance for something. You wonder if I think about those things. If it’s always in the back of my mind, all the contrasts between us. Maybe I’m right about us not always talking, because we haven’t said a word about how fat you’ve gotten, not since that first day. It’s just been the elephant in the room. The thing that you can’t talk about. The thing that I also can’t stop thinking about. Like now, as we’re climbing the three flights of stairs to your apartment. I can’t stop thinking about the way your cheeks are probably flushed with the effort of it, the way your breath is a little short, the way your heavy belly touches your thighs with each step, turning your gait into something perilously close to a waddle, although you studiously avoid even thinking that word. You don’t always feel as fat as you are, but climbing the stairs is always a swift reminder. It’s hard not to realize you’re fat when your belly’s brushing your thighs. I, meanwhile, am practically skipping beside you, like it’s taking all of my restraint to slow my steps and stay next to you instead of bounding ahead. When we get to your little balcony, you pause a minute to catch your breath, looking down at yourself, the way your sweater clings to your tummy; the way your tummy sticks out between the two sides of your jacket that haven’t met since last fall. In contrast, I look like I could sprint another twenty flights without breaking a sweat, and my jacket is neatly zipped to my chin. (pt. 2) (sorry for the wait, I’ve been celebrating my bday) (the next post you’ll see of me, I’ll have black hair)