“Jonas!” Cindy slipped out of her jeans and threw off her blouse as if it were on fire.
“Coming,” he said.
She ducked into the bathroom and in her rush, nearly crashed into the wall trying to get her bikini on. Cindy stared at the mirror and saw a fat girl standing in front of her. Flabby arms that flapped like wings, a gut that hung over her crotch, and enormous thighs that were riddled with jagged blobs of cellulite. She called this woman in the reflection, Ms. Pressure: pressure to be an athlete, pressure to eat right, pressure to be pretty, pressure to not be fat. Ms. Pressure was the sickness that followed her through gymnastics and high school. The longer she stared at this obese woman, the more Cindy considered purging into the toilet beside her.
“Stop, Cindy. You’re fine,” she whispered. There were two ways to get rid of Ms. Pressure and they involved techniques she learned when she was a sickly ninety pounds. The first step was to pinch her skin in order to collect a miniscule amount of fat. This small sample would contradict the size of the woman in the reflection. The second step was to tell herself that even if she were fat, with a huge gut and double chin, that it was okay to be that way. As long as she was healthy, happy and loved herself, it didn’t matter what her dress size was.
Ms. Pressure shrank down into a normal sized, lean, muscular, gorgeous Cindy. She threw on a semi-transparent camisole, put on a tweed hat, a pair of ridiculous bug-eyed sunglasses, and strutted her way out the bathroom.
Jonas sat on the lawn chair she had set up on the deck. Cindy pressed the outfit against her skin until hints of her body could be seen behind the camisole. She paraded past him and showcased her toned, muscled legs in front of him. He didn’t even pass her a glance. Worse, the bikini chafed and created an uncomfortable wedgie. She ambled awkwardly and tried to pick it out without him noticing.
“That’s real sexy honey,” he said.
“Sorry.” A flush of embarrassment reddened her face. Rather than give up, she leaned her back against the railing and puffed out her chest. She flaunted her ample endowments in front of his eyes. “Nothing?”
He looked up at her like a cat who was semi interested and then looked back down.
Her chest sank along with her self esteem. Ms. Pressure lingering in the back of her mind. “Should I just put my clothes back on?” she asked.
Jonas rose from his chair and held her by the waist. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy, yet empathetic and warm. His mouth moved aimlessly, unable to find the words. “I’m not really feeling it right now.”
“Jonas.” She took his hands off her waist and moved them to her chest. “We haven’t been together for months. Don’t you—want me?”
He took his hands off her body and let them fall to his side. “I do and I don’t. I’m too stressed to think about that now. Besides, having Michael around isn’t helping me forget what you did.”
“I wish you could let that go.” She caressed his neck. “I’m starting to think you don’t love me anymore.”
“Cindy, the CIA is after us.”
“I don’t care. In fact, the world could end in the next hour and I would still want this for us. You know why? Because I’d rather spend my last moments being with you, than worrying about things that haven’t happened yet. But if you don’t want me and you don’t love me, then we should talk about it.”
“Of course, I love you.”
Cindy took off her hat and glasses and threw them on the floor. “Are you sure?” She gently pushed up against him. “Prove it.”
Cindy closed her eyes and leaned in for a kiss.
Jonas grabbed her hand and pushed Cindy back. His eyes darted from side to side. Normally she’d welcome him gazing at her body, but this was uncomfortably different. She looked down to see what he was staring at and saw an unsteady red dot sweep across her chest.
