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again, Clem,” Ben said as he and Laurel headedout the opposite end of the kitchen through the French doors toward the grand staircase, probably to rip off each other’s clothes.
    “Just close the door on your way out,” he added.
    I wanted to spread that dull hummus all over their bed and let them roll around in that . But you bet your ass I closed that door—permanently—and walked out with my big fat check, all I really needed.

    “That’s insane, Clem,” Sara said as she stripped down to her bra and underwear to step on the scale in our bathroom. “I ran into Dickhead Pete, but that’s nothing compared to that. Seriously, that is messed up.”
    “Let’s not mention either of their names in our little sanctuary again,” I said. “They don’t exist.” I blinked my eyes like a genie. “Poof. Gone.”
    She blinked and added a genie arm cross for good measure. “Now let’s hope I made even a little bit of my ass disappear, too.”
    “Don’t worry about the stupid scale,” I reminded her. “Being a Skinny Bitch is about feeling good, not what some digital numbers say.” She stepped on the scale and I crossed my fingers for her. If she hadn’t lost any weight, she might get discouraged. That date from hell usually would have sent her into a sugar binge, but she’d been working really hard on the eating plan, not a Dorito in sight. Going from eating whateveryou wanted to being a Skinny Bitch wasn’t easy—I knew that firsthand. But Sara was really into it and sticking to it. I wanted the scale to show a loss to give her that extra hell, yeah .
    Three and a half pounds.
    “Sara! That’s awesome!”
    Her face lit up and she put her tank top and yoga pants back on. “I can’t believe I’m losing weight while I’m stuffing my face. That breakfast sandwich you made me this morning? I can’t believe that’s on the plan. Scrambled ‘egg’ tofu, soy bacon, vegan cheese.”
    “Breakfast of champions.”
    “Fettucini alfredo last night that almost tasted like the four-thousand-fat-gram version I ate last week. And I even get my dessert. I can do this, Clem. I thought I’d have to starve to get skinny.”
    “Nope. And wait till you taste the almost-cheesecake I’m making you today. One small slice a day.”
    We headed into the kitchen for Sara’s lesson on how to make very low-fat, low glycemic-index sort-of cheesecake. I got out the flour and the Stevia. “Hey, maybe we should film this for my website.”
    “Good idea,” she said and set up her phone to videotape it, but we moved around so much that all we got was some decent footage of a big silver mixing bowl. And the finished product, which was pronounced “fucking amazing” by Sara.
    “Clem, you should be teaching everyone how to cook.”
    “I’ve been thinking about that, actually, ever since I got back from Ben’s. Some people might just want me as a personalchef—making the meals and delivering them in reheatable cookware. But others might just want cooking lessons.”
    “I totally want both.”
    “I’d do it, but where? I can’t afford to rent a kitchen somewhere, and it’s not like I can teach in this tiny kitchen with the electric stove and half-dead refrigerator. I can’t stop thinking about it, though. Planning the menus for the classes, maybe taking field trips to farmers’ markets.”
    “Tons of people would sign up, Clem. I would. And who cares if the kitchen is small? It’s actually the biggest room in the apartment, and”—she glanced around—“I’ll bet eight people could fit in here without it being killer claustrophobic. Remember the party we had when I got the orthotics commercial? At one point, everyone was in the kitchen to see that shoe-shaped cake you made me, and that was, like, twelve people.”
    Sara had gotten cast as Real Woman on Sidewalk Rubbing Foot for an insole commercial. I made her a cake in the shape of a strappy sandal to celebrate. “You really think I could get students? It’s not