You’re fat, he said.
What? she said.
Fat, he said.
So? she said.
I don’t love you any more, he said. You are not just fat; you were fat when I married you. You are now grotesque.
She looked at him. What should she do? Cry? Beg? Rail at the unfairness of it all? At his cruelty? She put down her fork.
You want a divorce? she said.
Yes, he said. There’s someone else. Someone thin.
Her stomach revolted. She could feel the fondant of his faultless dessert rising in her throat. She fiddled with her cutlery; spoon, fork, spoon, fork, spoon… She picked up the fork.
To her surprise, it struck home with ease. She felt the surrender of sinew, the momentary resistance of the jugular. She drove down, twisted, waited. He struggled. He stopped struggling.
Smiling, she picked up her spoon and dispatched her pudding.