Free The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins by Irvine Welsh Page A

despite her having the classic low-self-esteem fat-slob’s fashion sense, I suspect there’s some wealth here. But we’re at Bodysculpt; if I speak my mind and a client complains, my tenure will be over, even given the relationship I have with Jon. So it’s a lopsided grin, and a cheerful, — Well, we got a little work to get you back in shape,
Mrs
. Sorenson, and I check her reaction to my assumption of her marital status, but her expression stays glazed, — but the good news is you already made the biggest step by walking through that door.
    That’s
what the lardass wants to hear. They want to believe that it’s all easy from here on in. That it can literally be done in their sleep. Because heaven forbid that they interrupt sitting in front of the TV, rising only to refrigerator-raid and pack shit into their sneaky, blubbery mouths. They don’t wanna get up before ten, eleven. Perish the thought that any diet and exercise regime should impinge on those basic American freedoms. And I’m sorry, Michelle Parish, you hot-assed little visionary, but what they do
not
need is more procrastination by sitting on those blubbery butts writing Morning fucking Pages. — It’s not Mrs., it’s Mi . . . Lena . . . please, call me Lena.
    — Right, I smile.
You GET Lena, THEN I will call you Lena, bitch.
— So let’s just get you on this treadmill, Ms. Sorenson . . . sorry, Lena . . . I smile, as she steps on and I set the speed to 5 mph, — . . . a nice even pace . . . there . . . how’s that? It quickly racks up to the mark and soon Sorenson is pounding along, sweating like a skulking schoolyard pervert.
    — I . . . I . . .
    — Too much! Surely not?
    I’m met by the face of the fat moaner: the apologist, the self-pitying, poor-me quitter. — It’s . . . really . . . fast . . .
    I hate those stupid expressions more than anything. The bloated dumbass oil tanker, where you search for light in those eyes; the frightened child looking for Momma’s sweet treats to make it all better; the belligerent asshole who wants to kill themself and really doesn’t know why they’re here. It doesn’t matter which of those archetypes show up, I just wanna punch out every time-wasting bum I see wearing one of those goddamn insults to humanity.
    As her meaty thighs wobble in those yoga pants, Sorenson’s face blooms florid. — I like to give my clients a goal, Lena. One more specific than just weight loss. A half-marathon, 10k, 5k, it don’t really matter.
    — I . . . I couldn’t . . . I just . . . cooo . . . Sorenson’s heavy legs clatter on the accelerating rubber belt.
    — Don’t wanna hear that word,
those
words; couldn’t, can’t, shouldn’t! You have to stand up. You have to come forward!
    Sorenson cringes under the violating impact of my words, but she doesn’t stop. Her terror-stricken pout tells me she’s not exactly full of grace, but she’s
doing
. I burn her this way for a solid forty-five minutes, bringing her to reasonable jogging speed, then back to walking, then jogging again. At the end of it she’s glowing like a red-hot ember. Sweaty and exhausted as she climbs off the treadmill, Sorenson finds herself unable, for once in her life, to open her fat mouth to take in anything but the sweet air she’s forcing into her puny lungs. — You did well today, I signal her to follow me into the office, and she wobbles behind me, still gasping. — But remember that exercise is only one component to this. I’m giving you a diet sheet, and I swipe one from a stack on my desk. Push it into her grasping paw. As Sorenson looks at it, I watch her face subside.
    I grab a card from the rack. — Call me if you start to get cravings for shit over the weekend, and trust me, you will.
    Sorenson’s face tells me she’s got them already. — You’re really . . . professional and dedicated, she gulps, fear sparking in her eyes.
    — I’m serious about you losing weight . . . Lena, so you need to be too. It isn’t easy,