Gordon eyed himself in the mirror. At thirty-six he stood five feet and ten inches tall, weighing at an unimpressive one hundred ninety-seven pounds. It was not a taut one hundred and ninety-seven pounds. As it was, he’d already lost forty pounds.

After his usual nightly routine of brushing, gargling, and bemoaning his lack of a love life, he added a hefty dose of Tylenol and Motrin before toddling to bed. Parts of his body hurt that he formerly had not even been aware existed. He knew it wouldn’t feel any better in the morning, not after she was done with him.

He glanced at the notebad on the nightstand, their usual means of communicating, where she had written in large letters, “Diet, man, diet! I can only do so much!”

Flipping the page, Gordon wrote back, “Here’s the deal. No more kielbasa before bed if you switch up the cardio and weight training. And for the love of God, lay off the gluts for a few days!”

Best trainer ever, the ad had said. It’ll be easy, they’d said.

Everybody lies.