By Arbitrary Point
(This is heavily inspired by any number of motion pictures with snapshot parlays into time. Enjoy. Any feedback or story requests can be mailed to firstname.lastname@example.org.)
Pete and Dottie love each other very much. They met at the circus when they were both 7, but did not realise any love or carnal attraction until they met each other again at a church picnic 7 years and had already undergone puberty. They became good friends over the next three years, and when Pete turned 17, they had their first kiss on his bed, under 70 watt bulb, just after listening to Olivia Tremor Control's “Black Foliage.” Four months passed, and here they are, deciding that they love each other very much.
“I love you so much,” Dottie says, with her arms clasped around Pete's waist. They are standing in her room with smells of oranges and incense, flannel sheets on her bed. She is a half foot shorter than Pete's six feet, and his hands are separate from each other and rest on each of her shoulder blades.
“And I love you,” retorts Pete, and now he's smiling. He is truly happy.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” she asks, smiling back.
Pete thinks. When he is thinking, he stands upright with a close but distant look in his eyes. He sometimes lets out barely audible sigh-groans, but now he remains silent. He is 155 lbs., slight, but in shape, with well-defined cheekbones. Short, messy brown hair; hazel eyes, small wire frame glasses.
Dottie is awaiting a response. She blinks a lot when doing so, with an almost glossy pair of eyes. She is 105 lbs., curvy, but gaunt, with an average bosom (34B) and butt (size 2), with well-defined cheekbones. Shoulder-length, straight auburn hair; brown eyes, contact lenses.
“I want you to gain weight,” he is answering, and does not flinch, though Dottie expects him to, wants him to. After three and a half seconds, he remains solid. Images race through Dottie's subconscious: Age 3: A pink bedroom. White ponies made of plastic. An attentive mom: “No, there aren't any fat Barbies. Barbie is supposed to be pretty.” Age 9: Elementary school cafetorium. Pigtailed girls and ringleted girls. “Dottie, why are you friends with chubby Irene?” Age 15: Grandma's kitchen. Family dinner. Dad said: “Cut down the eating, honey. You'll want a boyfriend.” She is blinking furiously, blushes, and laughs under her breath.
“No,” she's beginning a discourse now. She pauses, looks around the sweet-smelling room for some sort of answer. Finding none, her eyes dart back to her beau, who she's in love with but must make certain exceptions for. “I will do anything but change my body.” She's looking down at her taut and lean physique. “I'm more than this.”
Fast-forward five years. Pete and Dottie still love each other, but sexual activity is waning and infrequent. Pete has a goatee, put on about five pounds from the college activity of the past four years, Dottie has lost three. Dottie works out just as much, if not more, than she did when she was in high school. They don't say “I love you” nearly as much. Pete simply never liked thin girls, though he is loved and loves enough to stay put.
Today, the love of his life is jogging on the beach. Look! She trips on the sand. Gold and shiny. She brushes off sand, a lamp is unearthed. An apparition appears now, do you see it? It is an old man.
“Who are you?” Dottie asks. The man smiles a warm smile that reminds her of her father. His eyes are bluer than any sky she's ever seen.
“I am Ali Sheff Suprim, I am here to grant you one wish.”
“What, like Aladdin? Are you a genie?”
Dottie is remembering now, remembering the way Pete's eyes smiled with such fervor and enthusiasm all those years before, and how they are not the same now. She wants to give him something to love. She doesn't need to think any more about it.
“I want to make my husband love me and be totally happy with me.”
“Your wish is granted.” See the genie disappear just like that. His magic does not seem real, though, to Dottie. Startled, she picks up the lamp, ignores the rest of her exercise regimen, and strolls dully home. On the way, she buys a foot-long hot dog and large chocolate milkshake from a vendor. What has happened was overwhelming, she is thinking now. I deserve a little treat. I'll work out tomorrow.
A gyro seems good to her right about now. Some cheese fries to wash it down. Still hungry, and bemoaning the fact that her house is loaded with health food, she steps into the foyer and sees her beau, despondent and sleeping on the couch.
“We need to do some shopping,” she is saying, and this is waking up Pete. His eyes dart immediately to her stomach, which is protruding ever so slightly out from her fitness shorts. He notices a glow about her, which makes him smile warmly. Wow, Dottie is thinking, listen to her, the genie was for real. I've not seen him smile like that in so long.
“For what?” he asks, still beaming. If Dottie would look down, she'd notice an erection in his sweat pants.
“Food, real food.” She is on a roll, now, and she is convinced she is still healthy. “I'm talkin' brownies, cheesecake, bacon, pizza. I don't want to see another vegetable or Garden burger for a long time.” She is burping pretty loudly, and Pete is on his feet in two seconds and is giving her a hug.
It's a month from this moment. Dottie is lying in bed. She is waiting to be fed a turkey dinner with a side of cranberry sauce, stuffing, and chocolate mousse. The platter is the size of a table. She is licking her lips. She is 185 lbs., voluptuous, fat, even, with a huge bosom (36DD) and butt (size 18), with a burgeoning double chin. She is laughing, and when she laughs, her face looks even fatter. Pete is smiling, and it seems that each smile is better than the last.
Images are playing through his subconscious now: He is 14 years old, and is at a church picnic. He sees the most beautiful girl. He approaches her.
“Hey,” he asks, “want my piece of pizza?”