Her armpits were wet, I could feel sweat trickling down my armpit as well. Suddenly I remembered about the kids, I excused my self, went to the living room. I switched on the TV. Surfed to the channels, those days there weren’t many channels. I settled on a Cartoon Show on Doordarshan, those usually lasted an hour, half of which was already over, but the kids like always, were attracted magnetically to the TV. They sat glued to the TV. I went inside the kitchen. I found that she had regained some control and had tidied her hair. I just stood next to her and took her hand in mine. I kept it in one hand and started gently stroking it with the other, soft, gentle, feather touches. I saw goose bumps. I kissed the palm. She closed her eyes. I felt anger at her utterly stupid husband. I slid my hand into her hair, drew her closed eyes to my lips. She clasped my Tee-Shirt tightly. I kissed both eyes then very gently I kissed her lips. Now she made some effort. She pushed back with her lips;. By “Rebecca E. Finklestein.” 400 pounds? She was huge, beyond huge, but it just didn’t seem possible. Then I remembered the striated globes of her pectorals swelling up like tidal waves of muscle, growing until they eclipsed her collarbones and stretched her tanktop wide enough to fit around my waist. She could probably bench more if she wanted to.And it wasn’t just weightlifting. Becky had plaques and trophies for track and field, chess club, jazz band, debate club, and “Math Olympics” whatever the hell that was. Her name was all over the hallway. She was better than everyone at everything.As I got close to the weight room I could hear the familiar sound of weights clanking. Except it was only one set of weights. And it sounded like a ton of weight. I took a deep breath as I opened the door.The afternoon sun was streaming through the windows set along the top of the walls. I think there was a new paint job and maybe some new weights, but I don’t really remember. My focus was drawn.
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