Cheater, Rhymes with Eater

Ben’s wife was horrified when his systolic blood pressure hit 165. The doctor told him to get his shit together. “Or you’ll stroke out and start to drool or maybe just die.” Becky, as she does at moments of stress, ran to the kitchen and whipped up a tofu and kale and chia pet smoothie. She brought it to Ben. “Drink,” she said. “I want you to live.” “If I drink that, I might die.” But Ben drank. Slowly. He was horrified. After Becky went back to the kitchen, he went to the bathroom and closed the door and stuck his finger down his throat. She didn’t quit. She was on a mission. Salads. Bean and brown rice soup with skinless boneless sardines. On and on. Gruel for breakfast, gruel for lunch. His blood pressure dropped. Each day a little lower. “If this is the price …” he whined. Becky smiled adoringly. She thought he was kidding. One day, a month into his new diet, he told her he had to get something at the store. “Which store?” “The thing store,” he said. God, did it feel great to unwrap the Big Mac, hold it, adore its curves and juice spilling from its folds, to lean in, sink his teeth into the white, pillowy goodness, to savor the sweet and salty zing of the sauce oozing from between … “Ah-HA!” Becky loomed. “You filthy fucking cheater!” He stopped chewing. She resumed her harangue. “I knew it. I saw you looking, when we passed by. I knew it was only a matter of time. I thought it might be Wendy. But no. You’re too low-brow. You had to go for the … CLOWN! We’re done.” She spun and stormed out. He resumed chewing. He felt better than he had in weeks.

Stuart Watson wrote for newspapers in Anchorage, Seattle and Portland. His writing is in Yolk, Barzakh, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Bending Genres, The Writing Disorder, Bloom and Flash Boulevard among others. He lives in Oregon with his wife and dog.