Pongo #36

Andaw

"What are you looking at? she would ask
"Nothing.
"That woman -
"She's -
"What?
"Big.
"Big. Yes, I suppose she is. Why? You into that?
"Don't be disgusting.
"Say what?
"Sorry. Doesn't matter.
"You've not touched your food.
"I don't much want it now.
"Don't be daft. It looks fantastic.
"I've been put off.
"What ' by her? Come on Andaw -
"I have to go and do sit-ups or something. Or take a walk. Christ, she's still eating. Which one of her four stomachs is still FUCKING rumbling?

"That's pretty fucking mean. We're hardly übermodels. Besides, she's fine looking.
"Come on Insa, don't tell me that you'd rather look like that than be the size 8 pert young thing that you are. Imagine walking like a snail crawls, carrying the weight of your larder in a flabby halo around you. Bulging rolls of wobbling matter, imagine that. You are a liar if you say you would willingly trade.

"This is the side of you I hate. You heartily agree with me that Cadderine is an idiot for worshipping false frigging idols, then what do you do? You slag off fat people because Zoom, which you lap up on a weekly basis, tells you to, you accept money to wear their extra arse dimples like jewellery. Yes, I would rather be me than that woman, but that's past the point. You're a hypocrite, Andaw.

"And you're not? You're obsessed with umbrella fixes, you spend all your free time analyzing studies and confidential documents to learn more about who, how, where and why these things go on. Click on their website, you're giving them even more revenue. Take their brochures, you encourage them to print more. Hell, you're practically taking part, Insa. You're practically one of them. You love it.

"I'm trying, she would say, "to shut them down, or to get enough proof that what they're doing is wrong to fuck with them, scare them into rethinking their general shittyness. You seem to be a little too afraid that I'll succeed.

Generally after that, the argument would flutter its last. We would sip cooling coffee and watch the limpers lurch by, spiced in with the straight walkers. This exchange would typically replay at least once every time we met, forgotten without fail by the time we paid and left the cafe.

The last time I spoke to Insa in person was the night Cadderine messaged her. I have wanted to talk to her very badly, but right now, I'm not feeling so good about myself, or about anything, really.

Yesterday in the park, an obese jogger shunted past me, with a face like someone choking to death, and I tried not to hate him, but the thought was loose before I could chain it: Stomach stapling's cheaper than a ton of D Is For Doughnuts, Fatty.
A twelve year old clone of Bray Fairfax, authentic in most details, gawked at me as I leaned against an oak, trying to shred these thoughts with the muscles of my eyes, my brows; the way conscientious people shred bank statements to avoid identity theft.

Someone once told me that standing too close to photocopiers gives you mental problems, can kill you even. There's one in the library across the way from my house. There are two in the next nearest one, according to my online WhatMapper search. Three in the city central collection, one in the children's library, one in the Llopp Memorial branch. And they can't all have paper jams, or if they do, I can wait. For now, I have untold time.