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P.A. GALLASCHThe VisitThe match flickers, as tentative and cautious as the hand that holds it."You'll burn your fingers," you remark, watching as the flame licks lightly at myfingertips.I drop the small, fiery splint with an awkward laugh. The burnt fragment fallsupon the starched white cloth. Neither of us attempt to move the debris."How about a cup of tea?" you ask, making no attempt to rise.Habit reasserts itself. "If you're having one," I say, the distance of the yearsmomentarily abridged by a response timeless in its compliance.You smile, leaning back in a black leather chair I do not recognize. "Oh, I gaveup caffeine years ago. But if you want one ... " Your voice trails off.Our eyes meet across the formalities. With alarm I feel my fragile guard beginto crumble."No," I reply hastily. "Don't bother. I'm trying to cut down myself."You nod with understanding, your gaze lazily traversing my body.I puff uneasily on the cigarette, drawing the smoke back into my lungs with azeal more assumed than real. I am nervous, with knowing, with waiting. Your glance,seemingly so polite, can not help but perceive why I have come.I imagine myself through your eyes: thin, lank, a sickly pallor to my skin. Therich abundance has gone, so too the luscious folds you so delighted in exploring.Today, seated dejectedly before you, I bear more resemblance to the corpse I mustbecome than to the woman you once loved. And today, almost eight years sinceour parting, I need your support more deeply and desperately than I would havethought possible.You smile thoughtfully, your study complete. "You look fine," you say matter offactly. "Thinness becomes you."Fortunately my head is lowered, disguising my disbelief. I concentrate on the deadmatch soiling your clean cloth, unwilling and unable to accept the evidence of myears. You are being tactful, my emotions clamour, choosing your moment beforebroaching a topic so painful."I've lost a lot of weight too," you remark, patting your stomach with pride. "Nomore ungainly midriff bulges for me."I murmur words of encouragement, words that flow as social necessities into thesilence."At least not since I've been exercising regularly at the gym," you confess withouta shade of embarrassment. "Three times a week, two hours a night and I'm feelingbetter than ever."Despite my good intentions I give a start of astonishment. You had always decriedthe middle aged fitness fanatics seeking to preserve bodies riddled with decay."The last place you'll find me," you had said late one night as we had drivenpast a health club, "Is in there."WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989 65