Survival of the Fattest [Narrated]

It wasn’t a tour. It was testimony—spoken to the seats, not to me.

If you’ve read Eligible, Not Suitable, you’ll know that by the end of date five, I wasn’t expecting much from date six—except maybe closure. But then K—let’s call her Katerina, though that wasn’t her real name (something to do with discretion and a fraught departure from the motherland)—Katerina asked me to take my birthday off. She promised a surprise. We were going to New York. Tickets to a show, dinner somewhere grand. Just enough spectacle to make sense of the last two weeks of emotional dodgeball.

What I got instead was something else entirely.

The day began with a kind of quiet promise—sky washed pale blue, light catching the corners of buildings like it was trying to make them beautiful. Still, there was a knot blooming beneath my ribs, like the overture already bracing for the finale. Other than the destination, Katerina hadn't shared any details. The arrangement was that I'd pick her up on the U. Penn campus at 1 p.m.

I'd never been on the campus; you weren’t allowed there at night unless you were faculty or a student. She suggested I meet her outside Huntsman Hall, where her office was. Because the building had only just opened, her office was one of two Portacabins squatting inside like misfit modules beneath a cathedral dome.

I'd assumed that we’d be heading straight to the train station. Instead, she told me she wanted to show me her office. It was nicer than I expected, but unmistakably a Portacabin. She motioned for me to sit and turn away—"no peeking," she added, half-joking—and when I turned back, she was holding the birthday card she'd clearly just written, along with a large box beautifully wrapped, ribbons curled and trailing.

When I took it from her, it was surprisingly heavy. I opened the card first—a slightly offbeat blend of formal well-wishes and unexpected emotional specificity. Then, as I unwrapped the gift, she began flapping—hands fluttering, breath caught, a small step backward. Just a little. I paused until she recovered, then continued.

My gift was a very fancy 18lb chocolate cake. I know the weight because she proudly announced it as I scrambled for the appropriate response. She’d had no idea how to choose a gift, she confessed, so she’d wandered into a gourmet shop that sold extravagant chocolate tortes by the slice, and asked if she could just buy the entire thing. The sheer audacity of it—this massive, decadent monument to confusion and affection—took a moment to process. And yes, it was delicious, as my entire department could later confirm when I took it into work the next day.

I thanked her, telling her no one had ever bought me an 18lb chocolate cake before. She was giddy that I liked it. Gathering my thoughts, I asked why she’d chosen it.

Without hesitation: "Survival fat."

Now, I consider myself smarter than the average bear, but I had no idea what she meant.

"In Russia, we have long and hard winters," she said, gesturing to my midsection. "And we Russian women like our men to have some... survival fat. And you, Robert... you are too skinny!"

"And you've decided I need fattening up?"

"Yes," she said, beaming.

Rewrapping the cake for what I assumed would be a short journey to my car, she suddenly said, "Before we go, I'd like to show you the lecture halls where I teach."

"Sure," I said, thinking it would be quick.

It wasn’t. We left the cake behind, and I followed her down a series of hallways until we reached a modern lecture hall with raked seating. She peered inside, found it empty, and stepped confidently to the front. Then she began: listing every course she had ever taught in that room—titles, departmental codes, perhaps even in chronological order. Her delivery was meticulous, as though she were defending a thesis no one had asked for. I stood in the back, rows of empty seats watching her with more warmth than I could muster.

Next door, the lecture theater was identical. So was the ritual. Another roll call of courses, her tone unwavering, the cadence automatic. It was impressive. It was relentless. It was surreal.

At first, I thought it might be a way of showing pride—or transparency. But by the second hall, it felt like something else. An insistence on being seen, exactly and only as she chose to be. I nodded, smiled, and said nothing.

After ten more minutes, I gently suggested we should probably get going. She nodded, and we returned to her Portacabin. I'd assumed she’d been passing time until our train. That’s when she dropped the bombshell: there was no train. She hadn’t known how to plan a surprise like that, so she hadn’t.

If I were playing Emotional Bingo, I was ready to shout "House!" Frustrated, sad, confused—but empathy was making a strong late finish. I let the silence stretch.

Then she said she had another idea. She'd asked a friend about restaurants, and maybe we could go to a Thai place nearby. I just wanted to go home, but I found myself agreeing. We packed the birthday cake into my trunk and walked.

Imagine a cross between a restaurant and a Greyhound terminal—formica tables, buzzing fluorescent lights, stale oil in the air. It was cavernous, nearly empty—exactly the kind of weird that still made sense.

Every instinct said leave. But I had other things on my mind.

The meal was just as I expected: slow service, bad food, and the place was freezing. We kept our coats on. I just wanted it to end. But something nagged at me. I asked her—why would anyone recommend this place?

She said her friend had. I asked which friend. "You met her," she said. I hadn’t met any of her friends. "When?" I asked. "Earlier today."

"Do you remember the woman who held the door open to the lecture hall?"

Yes, I did. A diminutive Asian woman who looked barely out of high school. No pleasantries, no introduction. Just an awkward nod, like she was a cameo who hadn’t learned her lines.

"She’s your friend?"

"She’s a research assistant," Katerina said. "Just arrived from China. I asked if she knew of any restaurants."

"And this is her favorite?"

"No, this is the only one she's ever been to."

I was speechless. A rarity. I sat quietly while she paid, counting down to being back in the safety of my car.

Still silent, we stepped into the kind of cold that claws through fabric and skin. My car wasn’t far, and we walked in the same direction. I knew the route—her apartment was nearby. I'd dropped her there before. This time, I planned to say goodbye and drive off.

But I couldn’t let her walk home in that cold. I’d drive her. We didn’t need to talk. Just one last act of decency.

It wasn’t about cake or curriculum anymore—I just didn’t want to feel alone. Not that day. Maybe not ever. Maybe trying—just showing up—was its own kind of survival. A loop I’d unknowingly traced since the day she explained her partner selection process—when she picked me not because I was "the one," but because I was number eight. And I stayed. Because even absurd effort was better than none. Because hope, too, needs a kind of survival fat.

I’d never been inside her apartment before. I’d always just dropped her at the door. That night, we drove there in silence, and when I parked, I waited for her to get out so I could say a final, quiet goodbye.

And then she turned to me and asked if I wanted to come in for a hot drink before heading home. I hesitated, teetering between a clean getaway and a stubborn curiosity. After everything, I needed to know: what kind of world did someone like Katerina retreat into?

I know I said this was a two-part story, but this feels like a good place to pause.

If you're as curious as I was, you'll have to come back tomorrow for the final installment.