Fat Lady

I walked into Starbucks and waited in line behind this fat lady wearing leggings so stretched I could see how white her ass was. She probably drank frappuccinos thrice a day with extra whip cream and an extra shot of caramel. A ring, and god it was her phone, goddamn it. It was “Suussssaannnn girllll” on the phone. Fat lady and her friend chatted even while fat lady ordered her frappucino and of course the cashier was rolling her eyes when fat lady wasn’t looking.

Then, I stepped forward to order and fat lady, being too slow to move, was in my way. I gave her a flat tire. She whipped her head around, starred at me like I just called her fat, and said, “excuse me, don’t.”

I don’t hit women. I hit on women. “Hey,” I said, “I was wondering if you’d like to go get a tub of ice cream sometime. On me.” I scanned her up and down. Smiled, licked my lips. “Actually, it looks like it’s already on you.”

She gasped. How surprising. She didn’t say a word to me though, not verbally. She did this look sort of like a “I’ll fucking eat you,” look so I laughed. Then she walked out the door before her frappucino was finished, probably telling Susan how some guy just basically called her fat. And Susan, we all know, would side with fat lady even though she knows she’s fat — like unhealthy, dangerous fat — and fat lady would go home, sit on the couch and probably die of a heart attack today or sometime this year.

Who cares? Not my problem. I got a free frappuccino.