Their first date. His brittle breath nestles its way inside her ear, eagerly. Trickles its way down her tunnel, taunting, traveling, trembling; he breathes, “you’re not fat, you’re beautiful.” The same phrase, repeated. He loved to remind her. Repetition runs rancid when it’s romantic. The two: fatness and beauty cannot be conjoined, two separate entities establish endless miles away—impossible. She cannot be both. She cannot reclaim the word, it is a secret in the open. An illusion. The chatter around the pair falls flat as he absorbs all other sounds.
“I want you to eat as much as you’d like, order the whole menu if that’s what you have a taste for. We can even get dessert, we don’t need to pretend it’s your birthday.”
The heat of breathing out tickles the back of her neck, bathing her in anticipation. The wax from the candle drips down onto the table throughout the meal; only the small candles provide light for the restaurant. It’s dark here, each table carefully lit with a waxed figurine. While the humid, muggy, mangled mess of masculinity forces out desire, “Finish your plate, I’m paying for it…” she makes up her mind.
The pressure. The pressure to be a bigger woman than her rib cage asks for, the rubbing of her thighs tremble — nobody had ever wanted her to be his way. Feel the cellulite camouflage into carnations, find violets tucked in between her rolls, the holy water that is boob perspiration will hydrate him; he wants her to be beautiful. He turns her body into a godlike garden, a giant. He wants her to take up space, fill the room with the sound of her vulnerable voice and make a proper woman out of her, it’s different. Past dates downplayed weight, skipped conversations on her favorite foods, her body was evidence of bad habits. She felt like she needed to deceive people on dates, trick people into thinking she was skinnier. Sex with lights off, skipped meals the day before, covered stretch marks in concealer. Every hookup was an explanation of her body, to find an excuse. She trusts him. It’s different. She hesitantly licks her plate clean, takes his firm hand, and follows him carefully.
“I like you this way, there’s more of you to love.” His voice demands as they return to his home, someplace usually unknown on first dates in her experience. Dinner was rushed, she gorged herself. She wasn’t even sure if she really liked him at this point. But he has the voice of a man able to walk into a room and change the direction of walls in his favor — a shapeshifter. Her eyes wander around the room, “I’ll be right back, stay here.” he mumbles and runs upstairs. The curiosity consumes her, his place doesn’t feel right. She’s aware of how much space she takes up here, how much air her lonely lungs use up, she notices the sound the old floorboards make as her big-boned body inspects the place. She peeks into the rooms while he fumbles: an organized bathroom, maybe too organized; a pantry, nothing too special. He decorates his house like an Ikea display room, modern and bland. There are no pictures of his family. For an artist, he lacks taste in interior design. She lands in his studio. The vague topic of his art practice came up during dinner, something about soap carvings. Nothing too intense, just some occasional commissions. She peeks in, careful like a stranger’s bathroom medicine cabinet, but she still peeks.
Tallow. His studio is full of it. Jars on bookcases, each carefully labeled with a different feminine name. Hannah. Ellie. Maria. Chloe. All women in jars, boiled down. Towers of tallow turn the room into a collection: candles and bars of soap in progress. Wax is everywhere, it reeks, it’s rancid, it’s revolting. She finds a food processor blatantly left on a bloody countertop, everything covered in plastic. He’s careful with his work. A large pot stew with salt and water, he leaves them rendering. Turns women into wax, a candle. Person into object, objectively speaking. He uses Tinder to a turn tender testimony into tallow. She finds an empty set of jars all labeled with her name. Empty 32-ounce jars. They’re lined up precisely, uncapped and full of her breath. The short sharp breath of an oncoming anxiety attack.
She feels the pressure of his hand on her shoulder, “I bought extra jars just for you, you precious thing, you’ll be the biggest batch yet. Yeah, that’ll be good. I’m sure you’ll render just fine.” She freezes. The gentle press of a knife and the sharpness of breath ends their first date, the perfect placement of a point sharp enough to turn woman into fat. And fat into thin air.
# # #
Lex Chilson is a Puerto Rican poet, filmmaker, activist, and journalist hailing from the North Side of Chicago. She is currently studying at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree with an Emphasis in Writing. She has previously been published in Rookie Mag, WaterSoup Press, Literary Orphan Journal, and Verve Lit Mag. She has performed across the city of Chicago, from open mics to competing in Young Chicago Authors’ Louder Than a Bomb Festival to performing in the Museum of Contemporary Art’s 21 minus showcase.
Photo: Peter Forster
