I work as a cashier in an upscale coffee house in New York City . When I'm the only one working, I take the dollar bills people leave for their coffees and pocket them. I started doing this a few months ago, slowly, hesitantly at first. Then I grew more confident. None of the customers noticed when I didn't ring them up; they've got their own problems. My drawer was never under at the end of the day, so the managers didn't realize anything was amiss and scheduled me to work alone more often. In eight hours I can walk out with anywhere between fifty and two hundred dollars.

After my shift I walk around downtown for a while before taking the subway home to Queens . I spend whatever cash I've made; shoes, handbags, jewellery, whatever frivolous items catch my eye. The rest I spend on food. In between each store I visit, I walk the streets and eat. Today it's two hotdogs with chilli and a hot pretzel from a street vendor, a cheese Danish and two jellies from a gourmet don't shop, two slices of pizza, a king size Snickers bar, and just before I get on the subway, large fries and a chocolate shake from McDonald's. No one stares; it's New York . I'm just some fat chick stuffing her face--not even a blip on the radar.

On the subway, I take out my compact to freshen my lipstick, check to see if my gorging shows. I look at my face, my teeth; no telltale signs of overeating to give me away. My husband, Robert, can't understand how I've gotten so fat; he's obsessed with every morsel of food that passes my lips.

All he SEES me eat are the salads and tuna sandwiches I make at home. He doesn't know that when I get to work I throw my low-cal lunch into the trash, then sooth myself with fat and carbohydrates.

I am five foot two and I weigh nearly one hundred and eighty pounds. I know Robert is disgusted at the sight of me and I don't blame him. He married me almost four years ago when I was twenty-two and thin. As he never tires of reminding me: if he wanted to marry a fat chick, he would have. He says this as though I've broken our marriage contract by gaining weight, and I guess in a way, I have. Though I don't remember promising to "love, honour and stay thin", I suppose it's naive of me to expect that he--or anyone--would love me no matter what I looked like.

I let myself into our apartment and breathe a sigh of relief that Robert's not home from work yet. I hurry into the bedroom to hide my purchases (he doesn't know anything about my stealing and I don't know how I would justify coming home with a $125 pair of shoes), then go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and fix my hair before starting dinner. I have beautiful hair. It's long, wavy, and naturally blond, definitely my best feature. I always figure that if I groom enough, no one will notice how much weight I've gained. It doesn't seem to work, though. Robert would notice if I gained an ounce in my pinkie toe; he watches me like a goddamn hawk. I stare into the mirror, and even I only see my fat cheeks and double chin, so how can I expect someone else to look past it? I sigh and turn away from my image in disgust.

When Robert walks in, I've got dinner started and I'm sitting at the dining room table reading a book called 'Loving Your Body--At Any Size!' I found it in the bargain bin at the local book store and thought, "Hey, maybe this fat chick knows something I don't know." I hide the book under the table, embarrassed, but he's already seen it.

Smirking, he throws his briefcase down and says, "I'd love to see the pig who wrote that. She's probably never been laid in her whole fat, sorry life.

"What are you wasting your money on that shit for? Just lose the fucking weight, Emily." With those gentle words of wisdom, he shakes his head at me and slams into the bathroom. A minute later I hear the shower turn on, and I run to the refrigerator for comfort. I eat a whole block of cheddar cheese before my hands stop shaking.

Later, in bed, he reaches for me and I turn to him gratefully. See, I tell myself, see? He still loves you, he's still attracted to you, he just wants you to lose weight for your own good. He's trying to help you. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes, losing myself in his embrace, trying not to think about how long it's been. He buries his face in my neck and tears of relief spring to my eyes. I didn't realize until now how much I needed to be touched, how much I needed to feel this connection to my husband. I feel dizzy with passion, with love, and I resolve to do whatever it takes to make him happy.

"Oh, Robert," I murmur into his shoulder, "I've missed you so much..." I feel his back stiffen but he doesn't answer. After a few minutes, it's over, and he rolls away from me and sighs. I lay still, on my back, afraid to move. I let a minute or so go by, then turn on my side and put my arm around his waist. There's so much tension in the room and I don't know why. I feel the need to say something, anything, so I whisper, "Wasn't that nice, sweetie?"

He sighs again. "Jesus Christ," he says in disgust, pulling away from me, "even your fucking ears are fat."

The next morning I leave for work before Robert wakes up. I replay last night's humiliation over and over in my mind, wishing it had ended any way but the way it did; dragging my pillow to the living room couch, sobbing wetly for most of the night. About four a.m., he came out to tell me he was sorry, now would I please stop with the drama so he could get some goddamn sleep? I lay in silence for the rest of the night, staring up at the ceiling. I don't know who I hated more: Robert, or myself.

On the way to work I stop at my favourite diner for breakfast. Blindly, I order three eggs over easy, bacon, home fries, toast and coffee. Then, disgusted with myself, but still ravenous, I order a large plate of blueberry pancakes, drenched in butter and syrup, and eat that too. My stomach still feels like a large, gaping hole, and I order two cheese Danish's to go so I can eat them on the way to work. As I leave the diner, I see my waitress whisper something to the busboy and they both look at me and laugh. My face burns with shame and I want to cry.

When I get to work, I'm too distracted to notice that both the manager and the assistant manager are behind the counter, looking through receipts. I put my purse down in the back room and come out, lost in my own thoughts. In the back of my mind, I know something big must be happening for them both to show their faces here at the same time, but my brain feels fuzzy, unfocused.

I'm still oblivious when they tell me to please step into the office in back, that they have something important to discuss with me. The manager begins, "Emily, we started to notice a few weeks ago that the store makes considerably less money on your shift than any other shifts..." My heart starts to pound and I look back and forth between their faces, try to concentrate on what they're telling me. I only catch bits and pieces.

"...began watching you...set up a video camera last week...we don't know exactly how much, but we know it's a lot...if you can't pay back the money you owe us, we'll have to get the police involved..."

I stand there in silence, trying to comprehend what they're saying. My brain feels as though it's pulled away from my skull and is rolling around like a pinball. They stop talking and look at me, expectantly, waiting for me to say something. My stomach rumbles, and before I know what's happened, I open my mouth and my enormous breakfast comes rushing out; all over the floor, their desk, and my new $125 shoes.