Hidden Affair 2: White Girl With a Fat Ass

Part 2—Christmas Eve

Setting: A lonely drawer

A jolt and shifting metal clangs banging against each other longing for touch. Sudden light immerses Potato Masher in shame at being exposed so precariously intertwined with Serving Fork. She is not proud. But it is lonely in the dark. A low-carb year, she has been banished to the drawer since Thanksgiving and finally succumbed to his three-pronged attentions.

“What’s the matter, babe?”

“I’m sorry this was a mistake.”

Hands carry them into the light. She catches sight of her true love then. His embossed porcelain shimmers in the warm glow of holiday candles. Steam rises out of his wide mouth. A place she once found home in, now he is filled with dark rich liquid.

“Can you see me?”

She can not be sure. But imagines he lets out a shudder at her words. A trickle of velvety hot juice escapes him, spilling over. Hands lift him, revealing a dark ring on the counter. Take him away from her.

“Wait, I’m here. I’m coming.”

Silence. He does not acknowledge her cries of love. It’s then she sees Serving Plate, that flat skinny bitch, preening with the knowledge of her superiority.

“Mash, my dear, give it up.”

Gravy Boat rejoins his matching partner, and they are whisked away to the bounteous table. Hands fumble extracting the insufferable Serving Fork from her intricate curves. A place she should have never allowed him in the first place.  But what can she say?

I am only a utensil after all.

With a boing they are flung apart, and she is falling. Bouncing. Dizzy with the fall, and a broken heart, she rolls across the tiled floor. Kitchen debris clings. Slick dog tongue abrades her frame, soothing and demoralizing simultaneously. Rescued from this unnatural bath, she is dumped into Sink’s stale water which has lost all its suds. And no longer lathers luxuriously. She waits beneath the murk.

She waits for him despite herself. Waits for him though she knows it is fruitless, but she can’t help her heart. Time goes by anyway, as it does. Carols fills the air as the kitchen grows hazy with food and family. She is picked up, hand dried. Smears a cool shining gloss against her, and rubs. Hard. Harder. Moving faster, polishing, stroking in and out of her curves, her hated curves. Polishing her into a glowing heat till she beams with beauteous satisfaction. Done, she thinks.

But then she is drawn close as a puff of warm air encompasses her entirety.