Jack rolled over
and lazily kissed Sheryl's stomach. They were lying in bed on a Sunday
morning and shafts of dusty sunlight were waking them from a hot, restless
me there. I'm fat. My stomach's huge," she said.
"I like your
stomach," he said, nuzzling her.
"It's fat and
I am ugly. My arse is huge.'
is not huge. It is normal. You shouldn't read those women's magazines.
They give you the impression that you ought to be some kind of supermodel,"
he brushed the sleep out of his eyes, and flicked it again the room.
me..." she said, glassy eyed, "...from the tyranny of patriarchal
continued,"They're better than your bloody men's magazines - all
topless girls and cars."
right...and yet.." Jack stared at a fly crawling across the far
He KNEW he was right!
Jack piled the magazines
into a heap in the garden. By now he was sweating heavily and cackling. He struck
the match and the flames licking higher, illuminating his twisted features.
It all went up in smoke - the exclusive interview with Kylie, the pros and cons
of cosmetic surgery, the fifteen all-new-sex-surveys. He would show her...he
would show all of them...
Maybe he couldn't get Sheryl
back, but he could show her that he was more man than Christian, more man than
any of the impossible himbos spread over the centrfolds of her magazines.