Fuck ‘Em, Eat the Gelato

The woman scooping our artisanal gelato is glaring at me like I’ve killed her sweet little Pomeranian in front of her when all I said was, “Could I get two cones? One pistachio and one chocolate hazelnut? Thanks.” 

I’ve met her kind before. I’m too fat for this swimsuit. For no shame-embroidered cover-up. For gelato when I should be at the gym working off these thighs, not adding to them. I’m supposed to stay on an elliptical until the problem of my body is solved. 

I used to tell everyone I hate the beach because sand is dirt that gets everywhere, and that’s true, but, really, I didn’t want to strip off my clothes in public. The old stretch marks have faded and left luminescent white roots growing down my legs in bursts. The angry new red ones around my groin and randomly on my inner thighs look like the skin breaks they are. They draw the attention that my huge ass doesn’t. I’m an expert in anger, disgust and fear because my body inspires them in people. Everyone sees a public warning: here’s what not to do. 

Behind the counter, the woman tells me the total, and I realize I could put my pinky in the marionette line connecting her nose and mouth. I smile terrifically with all my teeth. Then I tip her all the change. The dollar bills and coins hit the bottom of the tip cup like heavy artillery. I lick my chocolate hazelnut scoop with my tongue stretched flat. The accumulating gelato is rich, smoky and full-bodied. 

The woman lifts her nose. I shrug and head back down the beach toward Devin. 

Sand soars up when I drop onto the towel next to him. He leans over and kisses me. Over the salty, fishy beach smells is Devin’s pine scent that’s home. He tastes like lazy weekend mornings with nothing planned but full of potential. His hands slide around my waist, and I giggle at the public display, the way his fingertips cause my nerves to ripple up and down my body. 

He pulls away. “You started without me,” he teases and licks the pistachio cone.

“It was a long walk!”

His smile reaches the crinkles around his eyes. It’s my favorite sight in the world. From the way he makes sure I don’t dehydrate when we hike to how he believes me when I tell him about my experiences that he doesn’t share, can’t share because he doesn’t look like me—he’s a cold compress for my brain. 

Skinny college girls in tiny bikinis parade past him, attempting to Jolene me. He can shop anywhere in the mall; I can’t. In their eyes this makes me vulnerable to poaching. The hot blonde stops, bends down so her cleavage is on full display, and says to Devin, “Excuse me. Do you know where Synder’s is?” Ah, the dive bar with dark corners for embracing already coupled men.

Devin pops up to give directions. The hot blonde smirks, moves in close, but he backs away the same amount. Her smirk falls. He’s just friendly, ladies. He would’ve done this if you were dudes. The other girls give me incredulous looks. He’d really pick me over their bombshell friend. They’re stuck in an old rule that says women who don’t follow the rules don’t get to be happy. And fat women like me have truly broken the golden rule: a woman’s body exists for other people’s enjoyment, not her own. 

I’m the one watching the girls walk away. Devin’s still on the gelato. “Is this real gelato or American gelato?”

He hasn’t been to Italy, but I have. “American. It’s always American here.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to go, huh?” 

A hummingbird takes flight in my stomach. Its wings beat ten times per second. “I’ve never been to Venice.”

“Venice, it is then.”

He shoves the rest of the cone into his mouth and he puffs his cheeks, so they bulge like a grinning chipmunk. I laugh, and he presses his nose to mine. His buzzed hair is prickly against my palm and warm from the sun. I run my nails down his back counting vertebrae before leaning into the space he’s made for me.