For their tenth anniversary, he bought her a box of diet pills. They weren’t cheap. When they didn’t work, he made her return them and give him the money back.

It was no use letting her get her hair done, how much of her could a haircut improve? She’d still be the same, only he’d have less money.

Her classes and projects were a joke; she always found an excuse to sit and study. Sedentary. Usually with a book in hand, ignoring him. He called her his Irish Sitter.

She’d get migraines. But they were nothing to the pain of his headaches or how sick she made him feel. Disgusted. He wished she were like the women he watched on tv in the afternoons: fit and perky. He deserved better.

Her clothes were ratty, and her jeans were too tight. He’d only give her money for clothes if it was a smaller size. The tightness should remind her to eat less. What does she need new panties for anyway? Who’d see them? No one would want to.

Why did she have no drive to improve herself?

He deserved better.