Chapter 1 -- Part 17

She had a full length mirror installed in our bedroom, where she would stand naked looking sideways with her hands lightly supporting her heavy breasts as if weighing them to see which was heavier, and ask me: “Dilip, do you think my breasts are full enough…? They are not sagging, are they…? I guess an implant would not be necessary — what do you think?” I would utter the same refrain: “If they were any bigger, dear, they would burst.” Then she would turn her attention to her tummy, “My tummy, do you think a nip and tuck would do me good. Perhaps an inch off here.” Then she would make her hands like a vice and clasp a fold of her tummy, “You don’t think I am fat do you? I guess all that dieting and jogging and Yoga and organic food is not helping much, right?” her eyes would be lit with horror now, to which I would reply, “If you’re fat, Naomi Campbell is a pumpkin, dear.” That always made her happy, though she knew I was lying. Not that she was fat; she wasn’t. She was just fleshy and always felt comfortable under me when I made love to her.
Then she would make a ninety degree turn and give the mirror a full frontal. “My thighs. They are a bit lumpy aren’t they?”
By this time my patience would be wearing thin and I would reply, “Not lumpy… A bit curdled, maybe. Like stale yoghurt. Sometimes they smell like it also.”
“YOU!” she would shout and reach for the pillow to throw at me.

(To be continued...)