Turn 6 of 6
Mara continues to fatten over time, crossing milestones of fatness as your relationship becomes more serious. A year later, you pop the question and she becomes your obese feedee wife. She positively fills her wedding dress, a clear third roll of neck fat, large fat arms and an apron belly and tree trunk thighs that drive you wild. She devours the wedding cake as you feed it to her. Happy Fat End
The months fold into each other like dough, rich and sweet and unstoppable. Mara moves into your apartment by October, and by November her old wardrobe is boxed and donated. December brings stretch marks — silvery lines mapping her thighs, her belly, the undersides of her arms — and she traces them in front of the mirror with the quiet reverence of someone reading a message written just for her. You watch from the bed, propped on your pillows, your own vast body spreading across the mattress like a landscape, and you think: this is the best thing that has ever happened to either of us.
Spring arrives, and Mara crosses three hundred pounds. You celebrate with a sheet cake from the bakery on Fifth, eating it together in bed, forks clashing over the last corner piece. She's unrecognizable from the woman on the treadmill — her face round and soft, that third chin forming a plush cushion beneath her jaw, her arms thick and heavy, swaying when she walks. Her apron belly hangs low now, resting against her thighs, and when she sits it spreads across her lap like a pillow. You love every single inch of her. You tell her constantly, between bites, between kisses, between the slow lazy mornings where neither of you bothers getting dressed.
A year to the day after Bellini's, you take her back there. Same table, same corner booth — though the booth groans differently now, accommodating two women who together weigh well over half a ton. You order tiramisu. When it arrives, you set a small velvet box on the plate instead of a fork, nestled in the cocoa powder. Mara stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the box, her triple chin trembling, her eyes filling.
"Mara," you say, and your voice is steady and warm and sure. "Will you let me feed you for the rest of our lives?"
She laughs and cries at the same time, a messy beautiful sound, and says yes before you've even opened the box.
The wedding is small and perfect. Mara's white dress is custom-made, and it still strains — silk stretched taut across her shoulders, her fat arms bare and dimpled, the bodice laced up the back by two bridesmaids pulling with all their strength. Her third chin gleams in the afternoon light. Her apron belly pushes the fabric forward into a graceful curve. Her thighs — those magnificent tree-trunk thighs you've spent a year worshipping — press together beneath the gown, each one wider than her waist used to be. She walks down the aisle slowly, deliberately, each step a celebration of the space she takes up, and when she reaches you her eyes are shining.
At the reception, the wedding cake is three tiers of vanilla and raspberry and buttercream. You stand beside her, one hand resting on the warm swell of her hip, and lift the first forkful to her lips. She takes it, closes her eyes, and hums — that same low, involuntary sound from Blendz, from the smoothie date, from every meal since. You feed her bite after bite while your friends and family watch, some amused, some bewildered, all of them unable to look away. Frosting on her chin. Crumbs on her chest. Her belly pressing against the silk. Your wife, round and radiant and yours.
She turns to you, frosting on her lower lip, and kisses you — deep and slow and sweet, tasting of sugar and raspberry and the whole rest of your lives together.