Coe Review

ut tells herself it's the cramps. It's just the cramps. She needs a candy bar, a
candy bar or a Belgium waffle smothered with bloody, sugary strawberries
and whipped cream from a can.
She's slowly turning into the food she's consuming, a woman all sugar
and lard, sweet and fat.
He's slowly turning into a sports channel, a fart machine, an iceberg, a
man.
She snakes Melba toast through cream cheese, crushes pecan shortbread
over Luv 'N Stuff ice cream. And then those little frozen pizza pockets, in
and out of the microwave, talking a matter of seconds. Dipped of course in
Cool Ranch dressing.
He drags himself through the front door completely exhausted, as if up
since four a.m. emptying people's trash.
Because what's life without Cool Ranch dressing?
He only sells bathroom tiles from nine to six—how hard can that be? He
stands at a counter and flips through a sampler, pointing out his favorites.
She clanks silverware as she eats away. She eats. She eats until she stuffs
herself and then some and some on top of that. Corn dogs, chocolate chips,
muffin tops, ham.
He suggests a certain this with a certain that, depending on color and
sunlight and how many bathrooms are there anyway, and will this be for the
guest bathroom or for the kids' bathroom?
There's play-by-play analysis here, no carmelly-voiced television guy
diagramming the slow-motion replay—but simply twenty-five, forty-seven,
sixty-two pounds of fat, as if where'd this come from all of a sudden and
without her consent? Who signed the papers for this? Surely this wasn't her
life, the life meant for her, all sweet and fat. She just somehow inadvertently
opened the door, cut in line, intercepted the call, that's all, a terrible mistake,
and now she wishes to complain or at least whine a little, send it back to the
chef, fill out a comment card, write a letter to the editor, buy a bumper sticker,
picket the street corner with a sign. Abandon ship.
All the factors you must consider when picking the right pattern for you.
Because we guarantee this tile for as long as you own the home. And that,
as you can imagine, is not a guarantee our competitors smile upon. Smiling
then. Showing the potential customers his teeth.
Desperate afterwards, she dials the phone.
Hello? Fern's voice is slow.
Darla says nothing.
Hello? Who is this?
Um, Darla says.
88 How They Came to Call it Love