Meatballs with a Chance of Clouds

Story Submitted by Cal:

I'm six feet, and at the time of this date, I was about 200 pounds. I wrote to Allie online, we seemed to have a lot in common, and I asked her if she wanted to meet up for dinner. She accepted.

The photos that I had on my profile were all current (least recent one was a little less than a year old) so I'm not sure how the following came about, but came about it did.

We were seated at the restaurant dinner table when she said, "So, those profile pictures a little outdated?"

I asked, "What do you mean?"

She pointed up and down at me and said, "Well, you're a meatball."

I looked down at myself, as if my body had just changed shape over the past few seconds. "I am?"

She said, "Uh, yeah. How much do you weigh?"

I said, "Two-hundred."

She nearly choked. "Two-hundred?" she repeated, "You're easily three."

"I'm not. Two-hundred-two, to be precise."

"Holy shit, you're a house," she said, "A meatball."

I said, "Sorry. I'm 200."

She said, "Let's make a bet: I have a scale in the trunk of my car. After dinner, I want to weigh you."

It was the strangest thing I had ever done, but I agreed to it. She agreed to do whatever I wanted, within reason, if I turned out to be closer to 200 than 300. So obsessed she was with the idea that any attraction I ever felt for her was washed away by the time that the weigh-in occurred.

After dinner was over, we made it to her car and opened the trunk. She pulled out an electronic scale and set it up on the ground. I took off my shoes and stepped onto it. It read 205.

I stepped off of it and smiled at her. "Now, about that bet—"

She pushed me aside and jumped onto the scale, herself. I looked away as she checked her own weight, then turned to me and said, "It was a momentary fluke. Try again."

I groaned and stepped on it once more. Two-hundred-five. She picked up the scale and shook it, then told ms to try again. Two-hundred-five.

I suggested, "If we wait here long enough, it might go down to 204 overnight. Maybe even 203."

"It's obviously broken," she said, throwing it into her trunk and slamming the trunk closed, "This doesn't count."

I asked her, "Did it register your weight correctly?"

She said, "It doesn't matter. You're obviously over 205. Closer to 300."

I didn't know what to tell her. "I don't know what to tell you," I said, "So is this bet on or not?"

"Bet's canceled," she said, "Stupid thing's obviously broken. I'll see you later."

She gave me a quick hug, then hopped into her car and drove off. I never did find out if she had her scale repaired, but as for the bet, the thing I was going to ask her to do was apologize.