Love Handles "Look at these love handles," he says, tugging at the excess skin at his waist. He looks at me like he wants me to tug them myself. Like I've never seen fat. But I do, I grab at his side with my fingers and he stops short. Searches my face for some disgusted reaction. But I can barely grab them. "You're the only one who notices." He grabs me. From his seated position, he locks his arms around my waist. Elbows clang against my bones. He presses the side of his face against my belly. I feel the blood in his cheek right through my tee shirt. And it's warm. But just as it heats me up, he pulls away. He drums his finger on my hipbone, traces it. "God, it's like hugging a skeleton." He looks up at me. Smiles. "I might hurt you. Hug too hard." I walk over to his bed, sit down and stretch out my bony toes. Purple, chipped toenails against pale, bluish skin. Makes them stand out against his burgundy bedspread. With no expression on my face, I fix my eyes on his stomach. It bulges a little from behind his shirt. Just a little roll above the elastic of his shorts. "Well," I say, moving my eyes to his, "make up your mind. You want fat, skinny, or me?"

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