78.92

She cannot help herself. She does it every time she visits someone’s home. After two hours she excuses herself and asks to use the bathroom. Some people rifle through medicine cabinets. Others take soap. She weighs herself. She stands on the scales and jiggles around. First on two feet. Then on one. Left first. Then right. Tip toes and heels. Arms akimbo. Hoping to see an agreeable number. She rarely does. She hates the electronic ones with their decimal pointed precision. The old fashioned ones are forgiving; she could be any one of infinite numbers when the needle vacillates between 78 and79. She finds it impossible to stay after she has weighed herself. It is as though the entire gathering is in on a conspiracy of some sort. They know she has weighed herself. They are all smirking behind her back. So she begins her goodbyes. And at the door after she thanks her hosts, she cannot help herself.
“There seems to be something wrong with your weighing scale. You really should get it fixed.”

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