Spinning by Michael Baron

She said my apartment was in conflict with itself and that the vibes were traveling in circles. I had heard of Feng Shui, but I really didn’t know what it was all about, or even how to pronounce it.
    “Feng shwing?” I said.
    “Not feng shwing. It’s pronounced phung schway and literally means wind water, she said, touching my shoulder. “It has to do with living in harmony with our environment.”
    “I already do that. See? Chair and TV there, and the beer is in the fridge.” I immediately chided myself for being a smartass. This was obviously important to her.
    I flipped through a few pages of the book. Apparently, the art of Feng Shui is about ergonomic placement of energy: doors and windows that open the correct way, a certain fluidity of air around static objects, and taking down naked art.
    “Close enough for now, Mr. Hunter.” Diane said when I told her the conclusions I’d drawn from my reading. “But if you’re going to keep your chair in front of the TV, at least you could be open to experimentation.”
    That sounded interesting. “Experimentation, huh?”
    She smacked me on the arm. “Not that kind of experimentation. Well, maybe that kind, too.”
    Then she told me she wanted to add more soy to my diet.
    Soy?
    After the warning, she surprised me with mac and soy cheese and said that Spring loved it. I went along, but only semi-willingly. More than surrender, accepting soy especially tofu involves a unique vulnerability of
the digestion mechanisms, or more eloquently, the willing suspension of distaste.
    What the hell.
    I asked her what she put tofu in and she informed me that it wasn’t something you added to recipes. It was used to replace items in a recipe. In the next few days, I think I lost five pounds. Diane used tofu to substitute the ricotta in lasagna and the chicken in our stir-fry. She said the tofu adopted the flavor of the sauce and provided a “palatable and chewy substance.” It absorbed things, all right. After two nights, I figured I could sculpt it into the shape of giant, maniacal slugs. After painting the eyes with red food coloring, I could set them in the houseplants on my windowsill to scare the pigeons.
    I drew the line when, three days later, I was shriveling down to nothing and Diane used a blend of tofu and soy cheese in our grilled soy cheese sandwiches on organic whole wheat bread. Spring agreed. The concoction was no viable cheese substitute. After our loud protest, Diane agreed to reduce the aggressive tofu campaign.
    Then I realized something. Just as she had failed to understand my diet was grounded in beef, turkey, and chicken, I had failed to understand Feng Shui and tofu were more than trends to her. They were as much a part of her as Spring was. Was the fact that I was beginning to understand this an indication that I was falling in love?
    I was doing things I had never done before and doing them on the spur of the moment: Feng Shui and “John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt;” Seitan and talking in bed for hours after making love. I even called in sick once just so we could take Spring to a midweek matinee. Spending time with Diane was like being on an exotic vacation; like a trip to Bangkok without the vaccinations.

    And the kid? I was starting to enjoy Spring as someone more than just a member of a demographic group I needed to learn more about. At three and a half, she displayed certain lovable qualities that were hard to resist, like a blanket fresh from the dryer. Of course, when she sided with me in the tofu battles, that didn’t hurt her chances, either.
    On Halloween, we took Spring trick-or-treating in her building. Although I had cut out of work early something that led to at least one snide comment from a colleague about my losing my edge I was still running late. It didn’t matter. Diane and Spring were even further behind.
    “Where’s your costume?” Diane said, looking a little disappointed, but not surprised.
    “I’m a pack rat, can’t