(3)

“Is it still hot?” Jenny’s tone was hopeless as she pushed her cheek into her pillow. She hated the heat. She was born and raised in Snohomish, near Seattle, Washington, and her decade in Atlanta had not accustomed her to the weather.

The far edge of their king-size bed dipped and rose as Jeff stood. “It feels the same as yesterday. Maybe you should get out on my side of the bed. What’s bugging you?”

“It’s summertime, dammit. I can’t stand this climate. It makes me so uncomfortable I don’t want to move. And you know my rash is back.”

“But what can we do about it? We can’t change the weather. We can’t relocate.”

“Oh, never mind. Just leave me alone. Just leave.” She turned over onto her other shoulder. Her sister-in-law had sent them gel-filled inserts for their pillows, from Herrington catalog or some such, that rendered them forever cool. That made bed one of the best places for Jenny. Bed or the bathtub. She wished they had a pool. She wasn’t about to use a public one, but if they had a backyard pool, private and not overheated or overchlorinated…there would be a way to stretch out and be comfortable…that would be an agreeable exercise…

Irked into wakefulness, Jenny got out of bed. She probably should have waited till Jeff was finished in the bathroom; he was a relatively tidy man, but he was out of shape and at least 50 pounds overweight and now that they were 45, he wasn’t a delight to behold. She wasn’t attracted to him. It didn’t bother her that they never had sex any more.

Not that she wanted sex with anyone. She had at least as many pounds to lose as Jeff did, but Jenny was barely five feet tall. Her hands and feet were tiny. All the weight had to go somewhere, and it selected the classic boobs-belly-butt. Each of Jenny’s tits was twice the size of her head. Her lower torso was a sausage in her wraparound robe. She suffered in the heat. And she tended to at least a rash (sometimes a fungus) below her breasts and in the perpetual belly folds. The final curse was her allergy to talc. She knew her body was ugly. She felt miserable.

(4)

“Nine dollars for this? Ridiculous!”

“I think it’s delicious.”

“Oh it’s tasty, but I’m sure it’s just blended peas and cream. It’s no big deal.” Grace dipped her spoon into the bright green liquid and tasted again. “I’m sorry. I just don’t get it.”

Owen’s hand quivered a little as he spooned through sorrel leaves to the lobster garnish. They were having dinner at Rubicon restaurant, recommended by Linda and the San Francisco Chronicle. It was a bit out of their way, near a corner in the financial district, but the room was pretty. Grace thought the sign in the window boded no good. Apparently, the place had always been open for lunch weekdays and dinner daily, but had recently changed to mostly dinner. Lunch was available on Wednesdays only. Since it wasn’t on any tourist path or near a hotel, and it wasn’t anywhere near full right then, Grace said she wouldn’t be surprised to learn soon that it had closed. Owen couldn’t disagree.

She ordered veal scallopini for her entree and he ordered salmon. The reduced menu only offered those two items and a pasta. Owen had sworn off meat when his grandson Mark did, two years ago. And he avoided the pasta because he was concerned about his shape. He hadn’t gained any weight but mass was shifting; it seemed as his butt slid down his waist moved up. So he had the salmon. Which was too bad, because it was mediocre and the veal was superb, but Owen didn’t complain, because he didn’t want to inflame Grace.

She was already off on one of her rocket comparisons. No one was quicker than Grace to talk about better meals she has had while ignoring the benefits of the present one. Even while she continued about the item prices, she kept insisting that at least three of their local restaurants were equivalent or superior to Rubicon. Finally Owen told her to shut up.

Then Grace grew girlish and petulant. Owen responded as much out of long habit as anything else; he reassured and comforted and flattered her, and put up with her reminding him how much she’d missed by not going back to work after Linda and Jeff went to school, and how hard she had worked because he wouldn’t even agree to send them to summer camp.

She looked better than usual. Linda called her mother the queen of neutral, because Grace always wore beige, ecru, cream or tan, but for their dinner at Rubicon Grace put on a turquoise linen tunic. The color made her white hair shine and gave a glint to her pale skin. Owen didn’t look as good. His complexion was blotchy with long-term sun damage and there were marks on his forearms where cancer cells had been excised. His skin had a shiny cracked pallor resembling dead flesh. Linda often lectured them about his skin care, but she never could talk Owen into cooler shower water, and she couldn’t find a lotion he would use. She even tried to get Grace to help, and she yelled with surprise when her mother refused, categorically, to massage anything into her father’s flesh. But Grace and Owen were finally old enough that they weren’t scared by their kids’ disapproval.