Big Beautiful Dreamer
04-14-2006, 11:39 AM
BHM, WG
ARCHITECT OF HER DREAMS
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am perfectly aware that dating a client is a bad idea in most professions and illegal in some. I am also aware that Francesca’s hint that his employment depended on his weight is probably grounds for harassment. This is fiction. Allow me a few liberties, please. And ENJOY!! BBD
As Lewis settled into his seat at work, he squirmed uncomfortably. These chairs were evidently built for really skinny butts, he decided, disliking the way his hips were wider than the seat back. And what the heck was wrong with his midsection? He pressed his hand against his waistband, frowning. Instead of descending smoothly past his belt, his stomach now rested on it, forming a modest pot belly. Where had that come from?
No time for reflection, he decided, dismissing the thought. He had a preliminary sketch to finish today before the client came in, which was – he glanced up at the wall clock – an hour and a half from now.
Though he more or less kept his mind on his work, his awareness of his new belly – or was that his new awareness of his belly? – preyed on him all morning. When his partner (Marty Robbins, the second half of “Parsons & Robbins, AIA”) poked his head in and said, “I’m going for coffee and a bagel. Want a cinnamon roll this morning?” Lewis paused before answering.
Why did Marty ask if he wanted a cinnamon roll? Did he have one that often? Maybe so, he thought, his hand surreptitiously slipping to his overlap. “Um, no thanks,” he said. “Just … um … a cup of tea.” And, “No sugar,” he yelled at Marty’s back. Marty flapped a hand in acknowledgement.
Just in time, Lewis laid the sketch on the desk. The administrative assistant came in, announcing, “Ms. Morgan,” then stepped back. “Ms. Morgan,” to whom Lewis had spoken only on the phone until now, proved to be a pleasant-faced woman of about 30. Her hair was cut in a smooth dark bob, and she was of medium height and just a little soft around the edges, maybe 5 foot 3 and 150 pounds. She was casually but smartly dressed in a V-neck lime-green sweater and unwrinkled khaki pants and carried a lime-green purse that Lewis recognized from a recent ad in the New York Times.
“Hi, I’m Francesca Morgan,” the woman said, extending her hand. Her voice was low and melodious, a burble of repressed laughter running through it.
“Lewis Parsons,” he said, shaking hands. A smooth, cool hand, firm grip. “Before you sit, Ms. Morgan, take a look at this, please, and let me know what you think. Now this is just a preliminary sketch. Within the laws of physics, we can do just about anything with this you want.”
The client leaned over the slanted, high architect’s desk with Lewis, their heads almost touching, both placing their hands around the edges of the desk for balance. Her hands were smooth and a little soft, and there was a white mark where a wedding ring had been until recently.
“You know,” she confided, as if reading his thoughts, “I got divorced a few months ago. He was a jerk – but it still cost him a lot of money,” she said cheerfully. “I’m planning to make this my year-round home, not just a vacation home. So I want a lot of windows to catch the light, but I also want it warm enough. Can we do that?”
“Sure,” Lewis said. He straightened up, took a pencil from a nearby jar, and used it as a pointer. “A lot more homes these days are using a floor-based heating system – it’s very energy-efficient – that goes back to Roman times. It’s called a hypocaust, and it warms the floors, with heat rising upward. We can also make it very well insulated and make sure those windows are very tightly fitted while still giving you fabulous views and light. It’s not cheap, though,” he warned.
“Money is just about no object,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I write for a daytime drama. If you look fast, you’ll see my name in the credit scroll at the end of Quiet Little Town. I work from home, and you wouldn’t believe how much money it pays. And,” she added, wagging a playful finger at him, “Let’s
not forget about Scumbag’s monthly checks.”
“Okay, then,” Lewis said, excited at the ideas racing through his head. “Now. About the overall design.”
By the time they got to the roof – having started with the floors – Lewis heard his stomach growl. It was so loud that Francesca Morgan heard it too. She smiled and looked at the clock. “Oh my gosh,” she said, “It’s almost 1:00! Tell you what,” she said, “if you have time, lunch is on me.”
“I have time,” he said, more excited than he ought to be at the prospect of lunch with this woman. “I have to go out to a site at 2:30, that’s my only hitch.”
“Let’s go to the Golden Corral,” she suggested. “It’s such a nice day, we could walk.”
By the time they had claimed a table and headed to the buffet, Ms. Morgan was insisting that Lewis call her Francesca. Mindful of the feeling of his belly protruding over his belt this morning when he’d sat down, Lewis fixed himself a salad. Francesca said nothing, but when Lewis emptied his plate and made no move to get any more food, she said, “I hope that’s not all you’re planning to eat. You’re a growing boy, you know.”
Lewis rolled his eyes. “I’m growing, all right.” Embarrassed, he patted his stomach. “Put on a little weight lately.”
Francesca looked directly at Lewis’ waistline. “Oh that,” she scoffed. “That’s nothing. Who wants a guy to be a skinny Minnie anyway? Go on. Get some more. I want us to get our money’s worth.”
Your money’s worth, Lewis thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he went back. Still mindful of his waistline, he chose a grilled chicken breast, green beans, carrot coins and a dab of potatoes.
Francesca tsked. “You’ll blow away in a good breeze at this rate,” she declared, but then let the subject drop. While he ate, however, she made a point of not just eating her modest serving of peach cobbler but making out with it. She moaned (quietly), she mm-mm’ed, licked the spoon, all but lay down and rolled around in it. Lewis resisted manfully and finally she gave up.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said, once they were outside.
“My pleasure,” she said. “When can I come back and see the new drawings?”
“Um…” Lewis pulled out his pocket calendar. “Two weeks? Ten-thirty?”
“Perfect,” Francesca said. “Bye, skinny!” She waved as she headed up the sidewalk toward the parking deck.
After his visit to the building site of a new theater he had designed, Lewis went back to the office and worked diligently until 6:00. On his way home, he almost automatically pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through, then thought about it. That’s where this thing is coming from, he thought guiltily, putting a hand to his belly. Too much take-out. His stomach, on cue, growled. Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll do better tomorrow. And I’ll work out tonight.
Later that evening, after the burger, fries and Coke were history, Lewis, by now in shorts and a T shirt, sat down in front of the baseball game on TV and tried a few sit-ups. They were harder than they’d been in high school PE class, and he managed only 10 or 15 before giving up, winded. He chugged a bottle of lemonade and went to bed.
When the alarm went off the next morning, he decided to go for a jog instead of taking his time waking up with the morning news. His pace slowed perceptibly after the first block, and he was puffing after one round trip. He forced himself to go around again; then, sweaty and pleased with himself, he headed inside to shower.
After a few days, Marty stopped asking him if he wanted a cinnamon roll. Lunch and dinner were still usually quickie affairs, although he occasionally remembered to buy frozen meals and even occasionally remembered to bring one in for lunch or have one for dinner. He plodded twice around the block once or twice a week.
Then Francesca came in to see the latest drawings, and again treated him to lunch. Her manner was slightly cool until Lewis, taking the hint, got a thick slice of pound cake from the dessert bar. She warmed up instantly and all but sat in his lap. She told him more than he’d ever wanted to know about her ex.
“He was controlling, but mainly with himself,” she said. “Worst kind. It was as if he thought his head would fall off if he ever gained a pound. He didn’t care that I liked bigger guys, didn’t care that I had no fun in bed, only cared about being skinny.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you’re not like that.” Pouting, she hinted, “I’d hate to have to find a new architect.”
Mindful of Francesca’s parting words, Lewis stopped his half-hearted joglets and went back to being a fast-food steady customer. He hadn’t seen much difference in his waistline anyway. Upon dropping his “exercise” and “healthy eating” program, however, he did see a difference.
His pants, which had seemed to be pinching just a little bit less, began to pinch just a little bit more. Simply for the sake of being able to breathe – a favor for his body, really – Lewis began fastening his belt one notch looser. He began toweling off with his back to the mirror. When he noticed that he needed new underwear, he opted for boxer shorts – and a size larger in the waist.
He began to puff a little taking the stairs to the office and started choosing the elevator. He began treating himself to a morning cinnamon roll – but only on Fridays. And then Francesca came in for her next meeting wearing a sleeveless blouse. The blouse was attractive and flattering, a mock-cowl that lay in subtle folds that hinted at her cleavage, and her bare arms proved to be luscious: lightly tanned, every so slightly rounded, beautifully squeezable. She seemed almost disappointed that it was time to start the actual building.
“Does this mean I won’t see you anymore?” Again the sexy pout, but this time her gaze dropped from his eyes to his thickening waistline. Self-consciously, automatically, he sucked it in, but that made him burp. He stifled the sound, but let his belly back out and it settled, relieved, into its usual flop over his belt.
“Uh, just the opposite,” he said, hoping he wasn’t blushing. “We’ll have regular meetings at the site until it’s done.”
As the work progressed, Lewis found that every time he ate anything, he was thinking about Francesca. Was it his imagination, or did her feelings for him increase with the size of his belly? Was her affection growing along with his waistline?
Finally, work done, Francesca insisted on taking him out to dinner. By now he was easily able to give her her money’s worth. Six months had transformed his average build. His chin and jawline had softened noticeably, as had his chest. His backside was wider, now significantly wider than his chair seat, so that he had to balance on the chair at work. His belly, even when he was standing, even when it was empty, curved outward. When he sat, it sat too, a cushion perched upright, balanced on his now way too tight waistbands. He’d given up on belts.
“I want this to be a real celebration,” Francesca announced the minute they sat down. “Two orders of crab dip,” she told the waiter, “and a Yuengling for him and a glass of Perrier for me – I’m driving.” Appetizers were followed, for Lewis, by a huge bowl of seafood Alfredo. By the time he finally saw the bottom of the bowl, he was uncomfortably stuffed. Leaning back in the chair, he stifled a belch and, with considerable effort, undid the button of his pants. “Two chocolate volcanoes,” Francesca told the waiter before Lewis could protest. It was over dessert that Francesca said: “Lewis, I like you. You’re not a jerk and you’re not controlling.”
“Oh, nice threshold,” Lewis said, laughing. After several beers, he was relaxed enough to say that, even though it came out “nizzze thesshhhh’ld.”
“I mean it,” she said, playfully tapping his hand. “What would you think about spending weekends at my new house? I’m not asking you to live with me,” she hastily added, “just … kind of test drive it.”
Lewis almost said he would live with her any time he wanted, but what came out was a burp he didn’t have time to stifle. When it stopped, he realized that he had an awful stomach ache and that he was afraid to move for fear of splitting his pants.
“Please,” Francesca said, as if he needed convincing.
“Okay (hic!)” Lewis managed.
“Good,” Francesca said briskly. “Now, finish your dessert.”
ARCHITECT OF HER DREAMS
By Big Beautiful Dreamer
AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am perfectly aware that dating a client is a bad idea in most professions and illegal in some. I am also aware that Francesca’s hint that his employment depended on his weight is probably grounds for harassment. This is fiction. Allow me a few liberties, please. And ENJOY!! BBD
As Lewis settled into his seat at work, he squirmed uncomfortably. These chairs were evidently built for really skinny butts, he decided, disliking the way his hips were wider than the seat back. And what the heck was wrong with his midsection? He pressed his hand against his waistband, frowning. Instead of descending smoothly past his belt, his stomach now rested on it, forming a modest pot belly. Where had that come from?
No time for reflection, he decided, dismissing the thought. He had a preliminary sketch to finish today before the client came in, which was – he glanced up at the wall clock – an hour and a half from now.
Though he more or less kept his mind on his work, his awareness of his new belly – or was that his new awareness of his belly? – preyed on him all morning. When his partner (Marty Robbins, the second half of “Parsons & Robbins, AIA”) poked his head in and said, “I’m going for coffee and a bagel. Want a cinnamon roll this morning?” Lewis paused before answering.
Why did Marty ask if he wanted a cinnamon roll? Did he have one that often? Maybe so, he thought, his hand surreptitiously slipping to his overlap. “Um, no thanks,” he said. “Just … um … a cup of tea.” And, “No sugar,” he yelled at Marty’s back. Marty flapped a hand in acknowledgement.
Just in time, Lewis laid the sketch on the desk. The administrative assistant came in, announcing, “Ms. Morgan,” then stepped back. “Ms. Morgan,” to whom Lewis had spoken only on the phone until now, proved to be a pleasant-faced woman of about 30. Her hair was cut in a smooth dark bob, and she was of medium height and just a little soft around the edges, maybe 5 foot 3 and 150 pounds. She was casually but smartly dressed in a V-neck lime-green sweater and unwrinkled khaki pants and carried a lime-green purse that Lewis recognized from a recent ad in the New York Times.
“Hi, I’m Francesca Morgan,” the woman said, extending her hand. Her voice was low and melodious, a burble of repressed laughter running through it.
“Lewis Parsons,” he said, shaking hands. A smooth, cool hand, firm grip. “Before you sit, Ms. Morgan, take a look at this, please, and let me know what you think. Now this is just a preliminary sketch. Within the laws of physics, we can do just about anything with this you want.”
The client leaned over the slanted, high architect’s desk with Lewis, their heads almost touching, both placing their hands around the edges of the desk for balance. Her hands were smooth and a little soft, and there was a white mark where a wedding ring had been until recently.
“You know,” she confided, as if reading his thoughts, “I got divorced a few months ago. He was a jerk – but it still cost him a lot of money,” she said cheerfully. “I’m planning to make this my year-round home, not just a vacation home. So I want a lot of windows to catch the light, but I also want it warm enough. Can we do that?”
“Sure,” Lewis said. He straightened up, took a pencil from a nearby jar, and used it as a pointer. “A lot more homes these days are using a floor-based heating system – it’s very energy-efficient – that goes back to Roman times. It’s called a hypocaust, and it warms the floors, with heat rising upward. We can also make it very well insulated and make sure those windows are very tightly fitted while still giving you fabulous views and light. It’s not cheap, though,” he warned.
“Money is just about no object,” she said, eyes twinkling. “I write for a daytime drama. If you look fast, you’ll see my name in the credit scroll at the end of Quiet Little Town. I work from home, and you wouldn’t believe how much money it pays. And,” she added, wagging a playful finger at him, “Let’s
not forget about Scumbag’s monthly checks.”
“Okay, then,” Lewis said, excited at the ideas racing through his head. “Now. About the overall design.”
By the time they got to the roof – having started with the floors – Lewis heard his stomach growl. It was so loud that Francesca Morgan heard it too. She smiled and looked at the clock. “Oh my gosh,” she said, “It’s almost 1:00! Tell you what,” she said, “if you have time, lunch is on me.”
“I have time,” he said, more excited than he ought to be at the prospect of lunch with this woman. “I have to go out to a site at 2:30, that’s my only hitch.”
“Let’s go to the Golden Corral,” she suggested. “It’s such a nice day, we could walk.”
By the time they had claimed a table and headed to the buffet, Ms. Morgan was insisting that Lewis call her Francesca. Mindful of the feeling of his belly protruding over his belt this morning when he’d sat down, Lewis fixed himself a salad. Francesca said nothing, but when Lewis emptied his plate and made no move to get any more food, she said, “I hope that’s not all you’re planning to eat. You’re a growing boy, you know.”
Lewis rolled his eyes. “I’m growing, all right.” Embarrassed, he patted his stomach. “Put on a little weight lately.”
Francesca looked directly at Lewis’ waistline. “Oh that,” she scoffed. “That’s nothing. Who wants a guy to be a skinny Minnie anyway? Go on. Get some more. I want us to get our money’s worth.”
Your money’s worth, Lewis thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he went back. Still mindful of his waistline, he chose a grilled chicken breast, green beans, carrot coins and a dab of potatoes.
Francesca tsked. “You’ll blow away in a good breeze at this rate,” she declared, but then let the subject drop. While he ate, however, she made a point of not just eating her modest serving of peach cobbler but making out with it. She moaned (quietly), she mm-mm’ed, licked the spoon, all but lay down and rolled around in it. Lewis resisted manfully and finally she gave up.
“Thanks for lunch,” he said, once they were outside.
“My pleasure,” she said. “When can I come back and see the new drawings?”
“Um…” Lewis pulled out his pocket calendar. “Two weeks? Ten-thirty?”
“Perfect,” Francesca said. “Bye, skinny!” She waved as she headed up the sidewalk toward the parking deck.
After his visit to the building site of a new theater he had designed, Lewis went back to the office and worked diligently until 6:00. On his way home, he almost automatically pulled into a McDonald’s drive-through, then thought about it. That’s where this thing is coming from, he thought guiltily, putting a hand to his belly. Too much take-out. His stomach, on cue, growled. Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll do better tomorrow. And I’ll work out tonight.
Later that evening, after the burger, fries and Coke were history, Lewis, by now in shorts and a T shirt, sat down in front of the baseball game on TV and tried a few sit-ups. They were harder than they’d been in high school PE class, and he managed only 10 or 15 before giving up, winded. He chugged a bottle of lemonade and went to bed.
When the alarm went off the next morning, he decided to go for a jog instead of taking his time waking up with the morning news. His pace slowed perceptibly after the first block, and he was puffing after one round trip. He forced himself to go around again; then, sweaty and pleased with himself, he headed inside to shower.
After a few days, Marty stopped asking him if he wanted a cinnamon roll. Lunch and dinner were still usually quickie affairs, although he occasionally remembered to buy frozen meals and even occasionally remembered to bring one in for lunch or have one for dinner. He plodded twice around the block once or twice a week.
Then Francesca came in to see the latest drawings, and again treated him to lunch. Her manner was slightly cool until Lewis, taking the hint, got a thick slice of pound cake from the dessert bar. She warmed up instantly and all but sat in his lap. She told him more than he’d ever wanted to know about her ex.
“He was controlling, but mainly with himself,” she said. “Worst kind. It was as if he thought his head would fall off if he ever gained a pound. He didn’t care that I liked bigger guys, didn’t care that I had no fun in bed, only cared about being skinny.” She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you’re not like that.” Pouting, she hinted, “I’d hate to have to find a new architect.”
Mindful of Francesca’s parting words, Lewis stopped his half-hearted joglets and went back to being a fast-food steady customer. He hadn’t seen much difference in his waistline anyway. Upon dropping his “exercise” and “healthy eating” program, however, he did see a difference.
His pants, which had seemed to be pinching just a little bit less, began to pinch just a little bit more. Simply for the sake of being able to breathe – a favor for his body, really – Lewis began fastening his belt one notch looser. He began toweling off with his back to the mirror. When he noticed that he needed new underwear, he opted for boxer shorts – and a size larger in the waist.
He began to puff a little taking the stairs to the office and started choosing the elevator. He began treating himself to a morning cinnamon roll – but only on Fridays. And then Francesca came in for her next meeting wearing a sleeveless blouse. The blouse was attractive and flattering, a mock-cowl that lay in subtle folds that hinted at her cleavage, and her bare arms proved to be luscious: lightly tanned, every so slightly rounded, beautifully squeezable. She seemed almost disappointed that it was time to start the actual building.
“Does this mean I won’t see you anymore?” Again the sexy pout, but this time her gaze dropped from his eyes to his thickening waistline. Self-consciously, automatically, he sucked it in, but that made him burp. He stifled the sound, but let his belly back out and it settled, relieved, into its usual flop over his belt.
“Uh, just the opposite,” he said, hoping he wasn’t blushing. “We’ll have regular meetings at the site until it’s done.”
As the work progressed, Lewis found that every time he ate anything, he was thinking about Francesca. Was it his imagination, or did her feelings for him increase with the size of his belly? Was her affection growing along with his waistline?
Finally, work done, Francesca insisted on taking him out to dinner. By now he was easily able to give her her money’s worth. Six months had transformed his average build. His chin and jawline had softened noticeably, as had his chest. His backside was wider, now significantly wider than his chair seat, so that he had to balance on the chair at work. His belly, even when he was standing, even when it was empty, curved outward. When he sat, it sat too, a cushion perched upright, balanced on his now way too tight waistbands. He’d given up on belts.
“I want this to be a real celebration,” Francesca announced the minute they sat down. “Two orders of crab dip,” she told the waiter, “and a Yuengling for him and a glass of Perrier for me – I’m driving.” Appetizers were followed, for Lewis, by a huge bowl of seafood Alfredo. By the time he finally saw the bottom of the bowl, he was uncomfortably stuffed. Leaning back in the chair, he stifled a belch and, with considerable effort, undid the button of his pants. “Two chocolate volcanoes,” Francesca told the waiter before Lewis could protest. It was over dessert that Francesca said: “Lewis, I like you. You’re not a jerk and you’re not controlling.”
“Oh, nice threshold,” Lewis said, laughing. After several beers, he was relaxed enough to say that, even though it came out “nizzze thesshhhh’ld.”
“I mean it,” she said, playfully tapping his hand. “What would you think about spending weekends at my new house? I’m not asking you to live with me,” she hastily added, “just … kind of test drive it.”
Lewis almost said he would live with her any time he wanted, but what came out was a burp he didn’t have time to stifle. When it stopped, he realized that he had an awful stomach ache and that he was afraid to move for fear of splitting his pants.
“Please,” Francesca said, as if he needed convincing.
“Okay (hic!)” Lewis managed.
“Good,” Francesca said briskly. “Now, finish your dessert.”