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Fat Girl by Mark Donahue |
Your lights are on, but you’re not home Your mind is not your own Your heart sweats Your body shakes Another kiss is what it takes You can’t sleep You can’t eat There’s no doubt You’re in deep Your throat is tight You can’t breathe Another kiss is what you need Addicted to Love, Robert Palmer |
Chapter 1
The images of two women who walked single file amongst other equally determined shoppers, were reflected in the windows of Anne Fontaine, Chanel, Ermenegildo Zegna, Louis Vuitton and Armani on Chicago’s Miracle Mile. The women were on a defined mission. A mission for clothing, but only a certain kind would do.
The two woman procession was led by Elaine Collins. At 53, she had an athletic, trim, Size 6 figure, sported white Ray-Bans, and perfectly styled honey blonde hair. She wore a Vera Wang jacket, slacks, and blouse, along with new Christian Louboutin flats.
Elaine’s summer ensemble was part of a powerful and ever changing arsenal of apparel that allowed her to convincingly and consistently lie about her age and get away with it. Of course the “touch-up” plastic surgery she had had two years earlier that added to her Sharon Stone resemblance, was also effective in getting the welcomed attention and services of younger men at her golf club.
The second of the two women was Sara, Elaine’s daughter, and she breathed heavily as she struggled to keep up the pace set by her mother. Sara wore something that resembled a tent. A tent that could sleep two. Maybe three. The garb, made from blue work shirt material, was drab, shapeless and designed not for stylish considerations, but rather to hide as best it could, the body of a 20-year-old girl who weighed well over a quarter of a ton.
“Hurry up Sara, I have a tee time at three and don’t have all day.” Elaine snapped. All the while, she ignored the shoppers on North Michigan Avenue who openly gaped at Sara who labored to keep up and continued to lag several paces behind her.
“Mother, just slow down a little.”
“I said, I’m in a hurry, damn it.”
“Then why didn’t you park the van closer?”
“God knows you can use the walk.” Elaine helpfully reminded Sara.
“If you’re in such a hurry, then why don’t we just grab a cab from here?”
Elaine stopped in her tracks, turned and faced a chugging Sara. “You know why we don’t take a damn cab.”
Sara knew why and at that moment hated her mother for reminding her of that day months earlier. She could still see all those people laughing who had gathered around when two Chicago cops and the driver struggled to extricate her from the back seat of the cab in rush hour traffic.
Forcing the memory from her brain, Sara continued her determined march and followed her mother toward a place they both hated On their way the women ignored several “Don’t Walk” lights at intersections before they finally turned west on Ohio Street. After a few blocks, they came to an ugly, yellow, four level discount store that had an entire floor that specialized in “Plus Sizes” for women.
The two woman procession was led by Elaine Collins. At 53, she had an athletic, trim, Size 6 figure, sported white Ray-Bans, and perfectly styled honey blonde hair. She wore a Vera Wang jacket, slacks, and blouse, along with new Christian Louboutin flats.
Elaine’s summer ensemble was part of a powerful and ever changing arsenal of apparel that allowed her to convincingly and consistently lie about her age and get away with it. Of course the “touch-up” plastic surgery she had had two years earlier that added to her Sharon Stone resemblance, was also effective in getting the welcomed attention and services of younger men at her golf club.
The second of the two women was Sara, Elaine’s daughter, and she breathed heavily as she struggled to keep up the pace set by her mother. Sara wore something that resembled a tent. A tent that could sleep two. Maybe three. The garb, made from blue work shirt material, was drab, shapeless and designed not for stylish considerations, but rather to hide as best it could, the body of a 20-year-old girl who weighed well over a quarter of a ton.
“Hurry up Sara, I have a tee time at three and don’t have all day.” Elaine snapped. All the while, she ignored the shoppers on North Michigan Avenue who openly gaped at Sara who labored to keep up and continued to lag several paces behind her.
“Mother, just slow down a little.”
“I said, I’m in a hurry, damn it.”
“Then why didn’t you park the van closer?”
“God knows you can use the walk.” Elaine helpfully reminded Sara.
“If you’re in such a hurry, then why don’t we just grab a cab from here?”
Elaine stopped in her tracks, turned and faced a chugging Sara. “You know why we don’t take a damn cab.”
Sara knew why and at that moment hated her mother for reminding her of that day months earlier. She could still see all those people laughing who had gathered around when two Chicago cops and the driver struggled to extricate her from the back seat of the cab in rush hour traffic.
Forcing the memory from her brain, Sara continued her determined march and followed her mother toward a place they both hated On their way the women ignored several “Don’t Walk” lights at intersections before they finally turned west on Ohio Street. After a few blocks, they came to an ugly, yellow, four level discount store that had an entire floor that specialized in “Plus Sizes” for women.
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