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didn’t have the energy to go out, she was losing weight. (Losing weight! Without trying to! Polly gnashed her teeth at the thought.) Hugh refused to examine or treat her, but he did begin to visit her again, with his children, and when Hugh was around, Carol perked up, dressed up, and ate the delicacies her children brought. Hugh left Polly alone at the ballet or in her bedroom, rushing off to kill the mouse that turned out to be a beetle or to show Carol how to use the dehumidifier they’d bought years ago. If Polly protested, it only made Hugh miserable. It did not make him stay.
    Now and then, Hugh did spend an nice big chunk of time with Polly. When he did, on the rare occasion, ignore his beeping cell phone, Polly envisioned her love life as a holiday feast, with Carol—a wilting, starving, dejected Gandhi-esque figure—staring at them longingly through a plate glass window, ready to smash it at any moment. She was certain Hugh hadn’t proposed marriage because no one, not even Polly, wanted to imagine what drastic, dramatic displays of wretchedness Carol would resort to
then.
That was all right. Polly didn’t need to be
married
to Hugh. Oh, it would be nice, but she felt fortunate simply to have him in her life. He was such a good, generous, openhearted man. He only wanted everyone to be happy.
    But could
she
continue to be happy with this constantly interrupted love affair? She wanted to be able to count on Hugh. More than that, she wanted everyone to know that she was part of Hugh’s life. She wanted Hugh to introduce her to his children. She wanted his children to realize she wasn’t some sexpot gold digger but a nice, reliable, intelligent, middle-aged woman who gave Hugh the nurturing he’d been missing out on for so long. She wanted, if she were honest, to be married to Hugh, she wanted him to live with her, so they could lounge together in bed, and prepare dinner together the way they sometimes did. She wanted him with her all the time.
    But that didn’t seem to be what Hugh wanted, or at least what Hugh was capable of giving her, and so her thoughts turned inward like the coils on a snail shell, circling back to her sense of self-esteem, provoking the questions of self-doubt that ran on a loop in her mind. Was she too fat? Was she simply not attractive enough, not sexy enough, for Hugh to want to be with her all the time? She reminded herself that Shirley—skinny, yoga-toned Shirley; sexpot, blubber-free Shirley—had no man in her life…though heaven knows, she was trying to change that. So it wasn’t just Polly’s being overweight that kept her alone in her house, never knowing when she’d be with Hugh.
    It wasn’t just about her weight, but speaking of what was reliable and ever-present—heaven knew her weight was always with her! Faithful to a fault!
    Polly groaned and sat up. It was time to shower and dress for dinner. Hugh had asked if he could spend the evening with her, and she’d bought a couple of nice thick steaks and lots of fresh salad ingredients. The thought cheered her. In the bathroom, she lathered herself with a luxurious perfumed soap. She felt cooler when she stepped out, fresher, rejuvenated. This was more like it! She had to stop lying around grumbling like a beached sea lion. She had to remember to enjoy the pleasures of the day and stop whining about what she couldn’t have. Wrapping a towel around her, she padded barefoot into her bedroom. Now what was that joke Shirley had told her? It was a hospital joke; Hugh would love it. Oh, yes! Now she remembered!
    The one about a man in a hospital bed with an oxygen mask over his mouth. A young nurse comes in to give him a sponge bath.
    “Nurse,” the patient asks, “are my testicles black?”
    The nurse blushes. “I don’t know.” She gets busy washing his feet and legs.
    “Nurse,” the patient repeats, impatiently, “are my testicles black?”
    With a sigh of frustration, she lifts the sheet, pushes his gown up,