Each morning before I file, you swing all 300lbs over the side of our bed. Embracing it like a baby of flour and lard you exclaim that no one could possibly love your kind of mess. Naturally, I develop a crush on the baker. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday I visit the bakery at 2 p.m.—where he tells witty stories and pontificates on Kant, and Hume. I trifle over his loaves and baguettes, and from the corner of my eye study his dallying gestures and the boyish flash of teeth. He can’t be but two or three years your junior. When I pay for Wednesday's rye I take note of the similar doughy thickness of his upper arms, the breasty chest, the sensuous shadow just below the globe of his belly. That night, the final rare occasion you and I make love, I close my lids and feel the baker beneath me. The next Monday I file the papers and go to the bakery for something to sop things up. There he stands, barefoot and naked mid the weekend crusts of bread, waiting for me to peruse his shelves, and fill my free arms with his mess of flour and lard that is not yours, one that I might never love.