13 Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl Read Online Free

we’re kindred spirits or something,” she whispers, lowering her eyes. And then, after a moment, she looks at you again. “I wrote something,” she says shyly. “For you.”
    She wasn’t going to read it before, but she feels it might go with the creative intent of track eight. She wonders if you’d like to hear it.
    â€œSure,” you tell her.
    You do not hear the elegy of the fat girl, which she reads in a quavering voice from a journal patterned with Celtic faeries. You are too busy watching her, being transfixed. How her hands tremble, how the red blotches on her cheeks and chest bloom bigger and brighter (you make her so nervous!), how she peers shyly up at you from time to time through a curtain of dark hair, her eyes moony and bright. And you don’t know what it is, if it’s the dirty mothers or the vodka or the rosé or some sort of black magic, but you can’t take your eyes off the fat girl; she has transformed, as she always seems to do around this time of night, into something you could almost love for an hour.
    â€œS’great,” you tell the fat girl, before she is even finished, but it shuts her up. “Yurr great,” you tell her, as you brush a lock of black hair away from her flushed cheek.
    Delicious, how she shivers at your touch.
    â€œOh,” she whispers, and only hopes you won’t forget her when you’re famous.
    â€œWon’t,” you assure her. How could you ever forget the fatgirl? She is, after all, your biggest fan by far. And no one ever forgets their biggest fan. It’s just bad manners. Bad, bad, bad, you breathe into the hot, crimson ear of the shuddering fat girl.
    Now all of the vanilla-fig candles have burned down to their wicks. And all the sandwich triangles and fudge bars and Banana-Rama bread slices have been eaten, washed down with the last of her love potion. And you are dancing with all three of the fat girl to the best of your B sides. You weren’t going to play them at first, but she begged you to let her hear them; she pressed the fleshy palms of her hands together and begged. Well, all right, fat girl.
    Your hands, possessed by the wine, or so you tell yourself, run up and down her squishy sides, from her astonishingly firm breasts to the monstrous curves of her many flanks and thighs.
    â€œWrotethissongbout you,” you tell her, even though you are so far gone now you do not even know which song is playing, and whichever it is, you probably wrote it about Some People, their red lips and white limbs and their wiles.
    Ah, but Some People, or so you feel now, do not deserve you or your music. In fact, you tell the fat girl, you are thinking of ending it with Some People.
    â€œReally, really?” she whispers, like you have just told her this is one bow-strung puppy she can keep.
    â€œYup,” you breathe into her warm, doughy neck, marveling at how, with one mere breath, you can make a whole fat girl tremble like a leaf.
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    Was it you who lowered the lights? Was it you who dragged her up the stairs and down the hall to the overly postered, Christmas-light-lit cave of her bedroom? All you know is the hammering ofyour own heart in the morning, the laughter of God ringing in your ears, when you wake up naked under her celestial patterned bedspread, your mouth still full of her long, dark hair.
    On a sheet of her Edward Gorey stationery, you tell her you’ve made a terrible mistake. You don’t know what you were thinking. Probably you have a drinking problem or maybe it’s something to do with self-esteem—anyway, you hope she understands. Though it’s a fine note, it doesn’t feel like enough. So you leave her an autographed copy of
Novembral Musings
(tentatively titled), which you hastily sign, “To My Biggest Fan.”
    It is only as you drive home, still drunk, through the dishwater-colored dawn that you realize it was a poor