What Are the Symptoms Dear?

“What do you weigh now?”

“One ninety-one yesterday, dressed.”

Annabelle tilted her head back and laughed merrily. Michael jumped up, trembling with outrage and said, “I think that’s the most callous and heartless exhibition I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

Still rocking with her unforgivable mirth, Annabelle stood up and pirouetted and said, “Look at me, darling!”

“I’m looking. You’ll do all right. You’ll make a good second marriage. No doubt of that,” he said coldly. She was a very delightfully constructed item.

“I can still get into my wedding dress.”

“Bully for you.”

“Now hush, Michael. Listen a moment. I married a nice tall lean guy. I haven’t seen him in a long, long time.”

“But...  wait a minute. I’m losing weight. So you’re glad because you think I look better. You don’t care why. What kind of logic is that?”

“Wife logic.”

“My God, stop smirking at me, Annabelle! I’m worried.”

“And heavy.”

“I’ve got big bones,” he said, with dignity. “Men with big bones put on weight after thirty.”

“Please sit down, dear, and stop wringing your hands. A piece of the sky has not hit you on the head.”

Michael sat down. “A man’s health is his most precious—”

“Possession. And honesty is the best policy. Face it, dear, I’m dishonest.”

“When you give me that Tallulah laugh it makes me uneasy.”

“I have stolen sixteen pounds off you, my pet.”

“Eh?”

“It took two months. You complained about watery milk. Of course, dear. Skim milk. And you haven’t liked the bread. Gluten bread. And plenty of meat and green vegetables. And how long since you’ve seen a potato in this house?”

“A...  a diet?” Michael asked in an awed voice.

“After two years of my useless little hints and plaintive little suggestions, I had to do something. You seem to think dieting is effeminate or something. Something for girls. Believe me, it doesn’t seem fair if I’m willing to stay slim, and mostly for you, to have you go around looking like... ”

But Michael had stood up, and he had turned that little switch in his mind which, he imagined, most husbands acquire. Annabelle was still talking. But it was merely a sound, with no meaning which reached him.

He walked down the length of the living room, feeling wave after wave of intense relief that he was, after all, healthy. The appointment could be canceled...  no, keep it and get that general checkup, just to be absolutely sure on all counts.

But, in the midst of his joyous relief, a mind picture appeared suddenly behind his eyes. A plate with two waffles on it, and fat, melting squares of butter floating in the hot maple syrup. His stomach snapped at the image, and his mouth watered.

He turned toward Annabelle and turned the switch again and heard her saying, animatedly, “... and even your clothes look so much better on you, darling. And the double chin is melting fast.”

Michael squared his shoulders and tentatively patted his stomach. It did feel a lot flatter. “You know,” he said deviously, “that was a very sneaky trick.”

“But you’re glad, aren’t you?”

He laughed cheerfully. “Yes, and as a penalty, you can trot right out to the kitchen and whip up a batch of waffles.”

He watched carefully, and saw her smile fade. “Do...  do you really want me to do that?”

“Haven’t I earned it?” he asked, and he thought that perhaps his tone was a shade too hearty.

Annabelle stood up with grave and quiet dignity. She went to the bookshelf, took out a slim black volume, tossed it at him. He caught it instinctively. She went out into the kitchen and began a hideous clashing and banging of pans.

Michael sat down and opened the black volume. Snapshots taken during the honeymoon and the first year of marriage. A lot of them. He slowly turned the pages and looked at the lithe stranger. Annabelle had changed, actually, very little. He remembered that the lean young escort had weighed around one seventy-five. Tough as a saddle. The arguments did deadly battle in his mind. George’s wife is a butter ball. Doesn’t care any more. Man digs his grave with his teeth. Strain on the heart. Weight gives a man a little dignity.

The image slowly, sadly faded. The plate of waffles went the way of the Cheshire cat, the butter disappearing last.

Michael went to the door of the kitchen, leaned against the frame, holding his dwindling stomach in. Annabelle’s shoulders had that ominous rigidity.

“On second thought, dear,” he said in his most casual tone, “I think I’ll... uh...  stay on it for a while. Just...  well...  curiosity, you might say.”

Annabelle turned, and he saw the warm gladness in her eyes. For just a moment he considered the months ahead which would be filled with oceans of blue milk, mountains of gluten bread, and dreams that would be festooned with potatoes. But then, across the oceans and the mountains, he had Annabelle in focus, and she was still the slim utterly desirable girl of the snapshots. He grinned a little foolishly and took a step toward her. But Annabelle, arms open, came all the way.