Slim to None by Jenny Gardiner

sure which is William’s top priority, his Lammy, me or Cognac. Or me on top of the Lammy with William. Nah, that would definitely not work well, at least not these days.
    Judging by the way he’s caressing the manifold, well, honestly, I wouldn’t even know if the thing has a manifold. It just sounds like the right thing for him to be caressing. Far better than a womanfold, at any rate. God, he wouldn’t caress some woman’s manifold, would he? William looks up at me from over his goggles. I guess he was tinkering with something blinding, and felt the need for protective eye gear. Sometimes I feel badly that I don’t share William’s interest in hogs (and maybe it’s presumptuous to call a scooter a hog). I know to him it’s just as pleasurable as food is to me. Call me crazy, but give me a roasted pig in a spit any day over a hog in a Harley shop. Although actually, I’ve asked William to stay out of the Harley business, because I can’t abide the noise of the things.
    But his scooters are sort of fun. I prefer the hot pink Vespa he’s got tucked away in the corner of his workshop. He bought it for me last year. But I never had the heart to tell him it’s too small for me. So I’ve made every excuse in the book to avoid mounting the thing, unless I can rest some of my weight against the wall or something equally supportive while balanced atop it. I’m afraid the tires will pop on me. Now that would be embarrassing.
    I know, I know. Isn’t this all the more reason to lose weight? You avoid doing things with your husband because your weight gets in the way (better than it getting in the weigh). I’ll tell you a little secret: I’d love to hop on that little pink Vespa and take off. Somewhere. Anywhere. I’d feel like Vespa Barbie, all sexy and blond (although I’m not blond, but maybe I’d dye my hair for the occasion). Of course I can’t tell William that, because I’d then have to tell him the bigger truth: that the Vespa and I are inherently incompatible.
    I was just thinking about something. How funny it would be for William and me to tool down the streets together in our baby blue and hot pink scooters! We’d look like a movable baby shower where you didn’t know the sex of the baby-to-be! Of course this only serves to remind me of that gigantic diaper-clad hundred pound Baby Huey in the middle of my household. We’ve had no further discussions about our prior discussion. The one I refused to discuss.
    "Whatcha doing?" I ask William, questioning the obvious.
    "I’m having problems with this piston."
    "Is it pistoning you off? Get it?"
    William rolls his eyes—even though he’s got goggles on, I can see it. But that’s okay, because he often rolls his eyes at me. Usually in an affectionate way. But now, I’m not so sure.
    "How was church?"
    "Very church-like. The incense and candles smelled good. Shame they don’t have a high-protein communion wafer yet. I bet they do in L.A."
    "Okay, then," he changes the subject, ignoring my wit. What’ve you got going for the rest of the day?"
    "I thought about going to the gym but it is a day of rest and I thought I’d tinker around in the kitchen for awhile, see what I come up with." Cognac comes over and I scratch his ears and give him a big kiss on the forehead.
    "Nothing white on the menu, right?"
    "Nope, nothing white. Wait, I lied. The chicken is white meat, and the crab is, of course white."
    "Great. Let me know if you need me for anything."
    "Toodle-oo!"
    I wander off toward the kitchen, wondering about the dispassionate tone to that offer.
    I set to work on my Sunday dinner masterpiece. First, rinsing the chicken breasts, patting them dry, and cubing into bite-sized pieces. I pick through the jumbo lump crabmeat, knowing that there will be plenty of crab shells despite the fact that I paid top dollar to avoid them.
    Next I grate the cheeses with my food processor. What an invention! Saves me hours of work.
    I heat up a couple of tablespoons of