Agatha shook her head.

"Do you want the same thing, Agatha?"

"Yes."

"What will you give for it?"

"Give?"

"Everything has a price, Agatha."

"What do you want?"

"Nick."

"Nick?"

"He's not much of a husband, is he?"

"He's my husband."

"When was the last time the two of you made love?"

Agatha started to answer, then closed her mouth. Their last suck 'n' f.u.c.k had been two weeks ago. They were due for another tonight. Nick had a biological clock that never failed. Two weeks, suck 'n' f.u.c.k. Two weeks, suck 'n' f.u.c.k. Exceptions made for his birthday, and their anniversary. Suck 'n' f.u.c.k bonuses, he called them. Two weeks . . .

"You deserve better," Helen said, as if Agatha's thoughts were obvious.

"You want him?"

"We need him. So do you."

"I don't understand."

"I'm asking you to give up Nick. That's all."

"What if Nick doesn't want to be given up?"

"I'm not asking Nick. I'm asking you."

Agatha thought of the pictures in the other room. She thought of the women sitting in the circle. G.o.d, to be one of them.

"Last night, you said you hated him," Helen said. "I heard you, Agatha. Did you mean it?"

Hate him? Her husband? Suck 'n' f.u.c.k Nick Galas? The man who humiliated her every chance he got? The man whose eyes judged and condemned her every night, every morning, every hour? The man who made her wish that she had never been born?

"Yes," she said softly.

"All right. Will you give him up?"

"Yes."

"I'm glad. I knew we could help you."

"What do I have to do?"

"Something very easy. Something you like to do. Just eat."

"Eat?"

"Whatever you want. In whatever quant.i.ty you want. No restrictions. There's only one requirement. One mandatory meal. Something for you and Nick to share."

Helen opened her desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. On it was a photocopied recipe. Two additional ingredients had been penciled in.

"Oh, G.o.d," Agatha said as she read the recipe.

"Our program works, Agatha. Guaranteed."

Agatha could not speak. She crumpled the recipe and shoved it into her purse.

"We have another meeting next week. Will you be here?"

Agatha could not find her voice. Her stomach rolled and contracted. With a hand over her mouth she stood and fled the office.

Agatha was in the kitchen with a gla.s.s of wine when Nick got home. It was after 9:00 P.M. Late at the office, he said, but he stank of cigarette smoke and perfume. Agatha's stomach knotted. She tried to smile.

Nick went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself three fingers of Johnny Walker Red Label. He drank half of it in one swallow, and eyed her contemptuously. He took a deep breath.

"Suck 'n' f.u.c.k night," he said, as if he found the thought distasteful.

"I'm having my period."

"So what? Use your mouth." He finished his scotch. "I'll be in the bedroom."

He left her alone in the kitchen. She could hear him in the bedroom, whistling as he undressed. Tonight she'd do all the sucking. He avoided her v.a.g.i.n.a when she was having her period. He said the smell made him sick. Still, he wouldn't let that interrupt his schedule. Two weeks, suck 'n' f.u.c.k. Clockwork, baby.

She finished her wine. The alcohol made her throat contract. Her tongue felt thick. She wiped her mouth.

Standing at the mirror in the hallway, she applied lipstick. A lot of it. Ripe Plum, the label said. Dark and rich, the way Suck 'n' f.u.c.k Nick Galas liked it.

He was lying on the bed, naked. His p.e.n.i.s lay across his left thigh, a soft, thick rolling pin. He was the only man she had ever had, but she knew from pictures in magazines that he was well endowed.

She sat on the end of the bed and leaned over him. His eyes were closed. He never looked at her when they had s.e.x, and she had long ago stopped wondering whom he was thinking about.

"Ease it in, baby," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Let me feel that tongue. Now, tighter. Yeah."

She worked him the way he liked it, the way he had taught her. His flesh thickened in her mouth, flattening her tongue. He slid to the back of her throat, crushing her uvula. She did not gag. He had taught her how to control the reflex. She made the motions of swallowing and his legs kicked beneath her.

"Yeah," he said. "Slowly, baby."

He tasted funny tonight. It took her a minute to figure out what it was. His skin had the sour, salty taste of v.a.g.i.n.al secretion. He'd been with another woman.

She closed her eyes, fought back tears. It hurt. It still hurt. She made the tears stay inside. She'd given him up. He wasn't hers anymore.

When he climaxed, he withdrew so that only the smooth, throbbing head of his p.e.n.i.s was in her mouth. His s.e.m.e.n exploded across her tongue, around her teeth. She pushed it to the pockets of her cheeks, sucked until he was finished.

He groaned, pulled away, laughed softly.

"Better not swallow, baby," he said without looking at her. "Old Nicky's come is loaded with calories."

Before she was off the bed, he had rolled over and was settling himself comfortably. She went back to the kitchen, took a bowl from the cupboard, and spat his s.e.m.e.n into it. The viscous expulsion, mixed with her saliva, pooled at the center of the bowl. She stared at it and shook her head.

Her mouth still tasted of another woman's s.e.x. Even through Nick's s.e.m.e.n.

He's not yours, she told herself. You gave him up. And the longer she waited, the harder this was going to get.

She squatted and pulled down her panties. The panty liner was thick with menstrual blood, some of it coagulated into strings of glistening mucous, so dark it was almost black. She unfastened the liner and put it on the counter by the bowl.

"I hate you, Nick," she said.

With a spoon, she wiped off some of her blood and dipped it into the bowl. Blood and s.e.m.e.n coiled in a whirlpool of white and red. The smell was acrid enough to make her nose wrinkle.

From her purse she retrieved the recipe Helen had given her. Blueberry m.u.f.fins. The kind of thing that Nick liked for breakfast. The blueberries would cover the taste of the two extra ingredients. And finding small, gelatinous lumps in blueberry m.u.f.fins was natural.

Nick would never know.

Two days later, Agatha woke before the alarm buzzed. She inhaled deeply, feeling rested, energized. Nick slept on beside her, breathing deeply. He had come home late again last night, smelling of the same cigarettes, the same perfume.

He's not yours. It doesn't matter.

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. After she washed her face, she stepped onto the scale. She stared down at the numbers and rubbed her eyes. She stepped off and stepped back on again. The pointer rested at 190 pounds.

No, that can't be, she thought. Not yet.

Yesterday morning she'd topped out at 210 pounds.

She stepped off and checked to make sure the pointer rested at zero. It did. She stepped back on: 190. Her heart raced.

She laughed softly and went back through to the bedroom. Nick was up, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"What are you smiling at?"

"I went down. I lost weight.

He looked at her, eyed her from head to foot, snorted. "Not so's you'd notice," he said.

He started to get dressed. When he pulled up his jeans, he swore. Agatha, sitting at the dresser, watched him. He pulled hard to get the top closed. His belly bulged over his belt.

"f.u.c.king jeans have shrunk," he said, turning to her. "Look at this."

He kicked off the jeans and took another pair of pants from the closet. These, too, would not close properly.

"s.h.i.t," he said, and would not look at her.

His belly bulged like a white balloon full of water. He held it in both hands and looked down at it. It jiggled.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," he said. "I feel bloated. Do I look bloated to you?"

Agatha stared at his reflection in the mirror. She did not dare speak. She felt cold.

"Better stop making those d.a.m.ned m.u.f.fins," he said. "I'm going to end up looking like you."

"All right," she said.

When, at last, he left the room, she looked at herself.

He's not yours, she told herself. It doesn't matter.

Slowly she began to put on some makeup.

"You are Nicholas's wife?" Dr. Binder eyed her with appreciative astonishment.

"Yes," Agatha said.

She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the gla.s.s door. She still had not grown accustomed to her new appearance. It all seemed like a dream. She had never looked this good in her life. Had never dreamed she could look this good.

"I'm afraid it's very bad news," he said.

He was young, slim, healthy. He was standing much closer to her than he should have been. She held his arm for support. Even her hand, long fingers tipped with red nails, did not look like her own. He guided her to a chair and sat her down. His office walls were bare but for his diplomas.

"Nicholas is suffering from an acute buildup of fatty deposits. It's an uncommon condition, but not unheard-of. It happens only to men, usually in their late thirties. I've done a little research. There have been only a couple of thousand recorded cases like Nicholas in the past twenty years."

"Is he going to get better?"

"At this stage, I can't say. This is not a well-known condition. It can be fatal. I'm not saying it will be in your husband's case, but I wanted to let you know."

"He was fine three weeks ago."

"What do you mean by fine?"

"Normal. He weighed about one eighty, I think. He always said that. That's what he weighed when we got married."

Dr. Binder almost laughed. "I think he was pulling your leg. He can't have weighed only a hundred eighty pounds just three weeks ago. That would mean he gained nearly two hundred pounds since then, and that's just not possible. His heart couldn't take a catastrophic change like that."

Agatha frowned but said nothing. She looked down at her hands.

"Can I see him?"