Episode Three

Her predicament: clearly ominous, expectations: clearly ludicrous, Donna anguished over what she ought do next. Abscond? Stay put? Was Trump a menace or a godsend? Would he keep his word or maul her? He 'appeared' to be benevolent; he 'appeared' to be sincere. And if he tried and failed; what then? Her life of 'hippo-dom' awaited: wearing drapes instead of clothes... avoiding closets, phone booths, turnstiles... hogging seats on buses, trolleys, trains, and planes... foregoing movies, concerts, stage plays due to chair restrictions... waddling... viewing curbstones as a challenge, steps a trial, steep hills prohibitive... taking showers instead of baths... describing items dropped as gone... inciting snickers, snubs, malicious insults, slights, cruel jokes, and jeers... incurring worse when caught reflected by a full-length, full-breadth mirror... having sex at awkward angles (having sex, moreover, solo)... feeling helpless, hapless, hopeless, and superfluous, always BIG, which meant unwieldy, unattractive, uncoordinated, ugly; to be BIG was to be exiled; to be BIG was so un-chic that were this sculptor's chisel fatal, well... so be it.

Trump critiqued, perusing bulges, puckers, pock marks, swellings, dents, and ill-made dimples; Donna's contours, on the whole, comprised one huge gelatinous hulk--inspiring one spontaneous outburst of elation.

"PERFECT!"

"Huh?"

Trump's eyes ignited with a curious glint, an arc lamp that consumed him as he found the words to clarify his appraisal.

"Underneath. In every block of marble there's a form awaiting freedom. Yours is craving self-expression. Yours is desperate for release. You've surely sensed this, dear Ms. Bledsoe; you're a siren among women. You're a Queen. You're Aphrodite, Venus, possibly even Eve!

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If you'll allow me...

And with that he reached, with both hands, making comprehensive contact
(Donna gasped)
massaging deeply
(fight or flight the instincts set at odds)
 exploring her physique
(afraid yet gripped by something altogether eerie, almost ticklish)
Trump manipulating every pore
(seduced, she dared not peek)
 inducing shudders, pins-and-needles, then a hummingbird pulsation
(as if wings were beating wildly in her privates)
 poking, prodding
(as if nerves, once tied in knots, were being loosened)
kneading, fondling
(as if tissues, numb to touch, had come alive)
caressing
(strummed...)

and then she heard it,
heard the sound that cost no pain but shocked her system,
heard it plainly,
thence repeatedly,
overwhelmed by its refrain:
the sound of
fat
as it went

Splat!

on the hardwood floor.

*     *     *

 

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