Hiatus Dessert Is Not Good With Women

A Story By Lysander Wise (Nathaniel Jones)

“Do you think I’m fat?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you think I’m fat?” Jamaica Dessert repeated as she looked with disgust at the model-caliber figure she saw reflected in $175 full length Italian mirror that hung in the washroom. Her designer-cut platinum-blonde hair surrounded her glorious face like a halo, creating an extremely false impression. She paused her daily ritual of self-disgust to lean her head out of the bathroom and glare inquisitively at her husband, Hiatus, shattering his bubble of tranquility. Hiatus had, up to this point, been relaxing in his $1,500 Lazy Boy recliner - complete with optional massage feature, heated seat cushion, and built in remote control - reading the latest issue of GQ magazine, a publication which he had enjoyed for many years. The quintessential gentleman, he sat like a king on his modern throne, in his royal attire, in his own personal Utopia called “Home”. Despite appearances, however they appeared from the outside, it was clear to all who had personal contact with this man and his wife that in this castle, it was Jamaica that held the scepter. Hiatus placed his martini in the custom-made martini holder built into the side of his pompous pedestal, and used his voice-activated remote control to lower the volume on the original London Cast Recording of Les Miserables playing in his $600 wall mounted CD/mp3 player from The Sharper Image.

“Do I think you’re fat?” Hiatus asked, cautiously laying out his course of action. He sipped nervously at his martini, and began toying with the buttons on the jacket of his $12,000 custom tailored Versace suit - complete with the optional massage feature, heated seat, and built-in remote control. One of the greatest achievements in Hiatus’ life was the fact that he could truthfully say that his clothes were more skilled than he was. From inside his suit, Hiatus can simultaneously give himself a back rub, warm his derrière, channel surf (his digital satellite hook up gets him over 7,500 different channels from around the world, seen crystal clear on his 72” Wide screen HDTV,) and start his luxury sedan - another object more skilled than Hiatus himself.

“Are you avoiding the question?” accused Jamaica, taking the initiative to step out of the washroom and into the living quarters, obliterating any and all chances of Hiatus making it through the night without ending up on the couch. An elegant designer towel graced her precious head. However, despite the fabric’s distinct appearance, the towel had approximately the same ability to dry hair as a bucket of water. She wore her infamous backless, side-less, strapless dress, $800,000 from a designer whose name you’d recognize if it were mentioned.

“Backless, side-less, AND strapless? Why, doesn’t it fall off?” asked Brad DeMann at the Dessert’s New Millennium party.

“Fall off? Why would it? It can’t think of anywhere it’d rather be!” joked Hiatus. It is often rumored that once every three years, Hiatus Dessert gets a good joke. That one wasn’t it.

“Avoiding the question? Why would I want to do that? You know I think you’re gorgeous,” Hiatus truthfully stated. He knew from experience, though, that in a situation like this, the truth would not get him far. Placing the remainder of the drink back into its spot, he braced himself for the spat that was sure to ensue.

“I didn’t ask if you think I’m gorgeous,” Jamaica screeched, “I asked if you think I’m FAT!” Hiatus cowered in the plush cushions of the Lazy Boy. Although he should have known better, he peered over at his wife, and stammered:

“No, I don’t think you’re fat.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“You don’t think I’m even just the teensiest bit overweight?” Jamaica implored in the most cloying voice possible. “Not even one teensy weensy itty bitty bit?”

“No. Not even that much.” Hiatus declared, under the impression that perhaps tonight, for the first time in the history of mankind, a man would survive the Unmentionable Question. Perhaps it was that impression that did Hiatus in. Perhaps he got overconfident. Perhaps he was blinded by his own ambition; the world may never know.

“You think I’m skinny?”

“Yes, I think you’re skinny!” as soon as the words escaped his mouth, Hiatus Dessert felt his triumph slip away. His look of joy was replaced by a look of horror.

“Too skinny? You think I’m too skinny?” demanded Divinity, Hiatus’ high school sweetheart, in the backseat of Hiatus’ BMW. It was November 5, 1974: a day that would live in infamy. It was their third date, and the first time Hiatus had been faced with The Question that had destroyed greater men than he.

“No, baby, that’s not what I meant!” squeaked the 16-year-old Hiatus. “I mean, I think you’re perfect!”

“Yeah, perfectly stick-like. You think I’m a twig! Go on, say it! Say you think I look like an over-sharpened pencil!” raged Divinity as she flung open the door.

“No, I didn’t mean that! Honest! I don’t think you’re too skinny! I don’t think you’re skinny at all!” explained Hiatus.

“What?!” bellowed Divinity, the strength of her voice smashing both the back window of the BMW, and Hiatus’ ego, in one high-pitched screech.

“I didn’t mean it that way! I didn’t mean it!” choked Hiatus as Divinity ran from his side, never to return. Or, at least not to return until they went back to school the next Monday.

“I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!”

“Didn’t mean what?” questioned Jamaica. “Hiatus, are you listening to a word I’m saying?”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. Every word.” mumbled Hiatus, back in the relative safety of his recliner.

“Well, then?”

“Well, what?”

“I asked you a question and you didn’t answer. You just kept saying ‘I didn’t mean it.’ You were listening, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I just said I was, didn’t I?”

“So? What’s the answer? Do you or don’t you?”

Hiatus’ heart stopped cold. Beads of sweat lined his forehead, and he wished he were with them; he would rather be anywhere other than in his body right at that moment. After a quick round of eenie-meenie-minie-moe, he had chosen his answer. He sat up tall, flashed one his famous smiles, and said, “Yeah, baby, of course I do!”

The last thing Hiatus remembered before waking up on the couch the next morning was the feel of Jamaica’s fist connecting with his nose. He looked around, groggily, his nose still numb. He sat up, and looked over at the doorway to his bedroom, where his wife stood waiting for him to get up. As Hiatus’ feet hit the carpet, he heard Jamaica ask:

“Do I look good in this outfit?”