Wedding Weight

Chapter 7 - Not Fun

Robyn jogged miserably on her treadmill. On the TV was another presumably inspirational movie, this one about a female boxer who overcomes a traumatic upbringing to become a fierce welterweight contender. Then, in the climactic bout, she hits her head on a stool, becomes a quadriplegic, has a leg amputated and dies.

The human spirit triumphs again.

It had been a week since Robyn tried to blink a message to her fiancé. She understood that it was a long shot, an act of desperation. Who knows Morse code in the Internet Age? Brian sure didn't nor, for that matter, did Robyn. But she held out the hope that her arrhythmic fluttering of lashes and glazed stare would alarm her future husband and he would... what? Call 911? Right, because the police are so famously responsive to complaints of blinking irregularities.

Her bracelet chimed. DINNER!

On cue, Dave entered with a sixteen ounce glass of what looked like congealed gravy. "Mmmmm," he said, rubbing his stomach with his free hand. Robyn's eyes turned into angry slits as she glared at him.

He offered the glass to her and she took it, gulping it down as fast as she could. It was a new flavor combination that was hard to identity. Artichoke, Greek yogurt and... cherry cough syrup, maybe?

"Why is it necessary," Robyn asked when the waves of nausea subsided, "for everything to taste like shit?"

"We're training you to think differently about food," Dave explained. "The purpose of food is to build a healthy body. Taste confuses the issue, makes you eat to excess and crave things that are bad for you."

"You do realize you sound like a robot, right?"

Dave, it seemed, was developing an appreciation for Robyn's sassiness, because he had to work harder than usual to suppress a smile. Then, when he was confident he had his face under control, he pulled out his tablet and pushed a button, activating the screen.

"So what colors were you thinking for the table cloths?" he asked.

Robyn stared at him, uncomprehending. "What are you talking about?"

"The table cloths," he repeated, but the words seemed to hold no meaning for her. "For your wedding?" He slowly and loudly enunciated each word as if talking to a foreigner. "That's what all this is about, right?" And then it came rushing back to her. She still had a wedding to plan.

"Right!" she said. "Jesus."

"Brian emailed and-"

"You're reading my emails?" As soon as she said it, she felt stupid for being surprised. Of course they were reading her emails.

Unruffled, Dave started again. "Brian emailed and he's not sure if you want ivory, baby powder or seashell."

Robyn became thoughtful. She closed her eyes, visualizing how each shade of white would work with the centerpiece she had selected.

"What does Brian prefer?"

Dave looked down at the tablet. "He has no preference."

Robyn made a disapproving phlegmy noise. "Typical. So what do you think?"

"I think that only a crazy person would care about this."

Robyn nodded thoughtfully. "Ask him to send swatches."

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The next morning, after Robyn finished jogging to yet another purportedly inspirational film - this one about a feisty criminal who is given electroshock treatments, a lobotomy and finally smothered to death with a pillow by a large Native American man - Dave came in with her hideous breakfast drink and a surprise.