Eater’s Paradox

        My tongue itches for desserts – the sweet experiences that I forbid myself to delight in.

               Even as the suburban with my family inside pulls out of the driveway, it isn't until they turn the corner of my neighborhood that I decide to walk over to the cupboard.

               Stop. You need to stop. Control yourself.

               I open the pantry, dozens of cardboard boxes at my private disposal now that I was home alone. I don't even spare the crackers or bags of chips a second of my time - salty things won't satisfy me. I grab a bag of chocolate-covered pecans and open it. My hands were practically shaking with hunger and craving, all accumulated from a long, miserable day at school.

               Only three. Take only three.

               I take three small pieces and put them in my mouth, the craving barely even scratched at the surface by reminding myself of this rich flavor. I take three more pieces than I initially wanted and force myself to put the bag back in place. However, I find myself searching around for more, my craving not satisfied. Not nearly. Not now since the taste – rich, dark chocolate laced with salt and the faintest taste of the pecans – lingered on my tongue.

               You need to stop. It's too much.

               A cereal with marshmallows is the next box I dig into. I scoop a handful, checking to make sure I get plenty of the sweet, soft candies before shoving it into my mouth.

               Stop. No more. Stop, stop, stop.

               I take another handful.

               Stop.

               Another.

               Stop.

               Another.

               STOP.

               I hear the front door open and a short, heavyset girl strolls in. She gives me an awkward smile before taking a seat at the kitchen counter. I then realize I'm still holding the cereal box and see just how stupid I must look. I hurry to close it and shove it back into the cupboard, the sweet craving replaced with shame and embarrassment.

               How many calories per serving? How much was in each handful? How many handfuls?

               "How's it going?" I ask her.

               She shrugs. "It's going okay."

               I notice the slump in her shoulders, the way she slouched over. It made her stomach fold over unattractively, but I didn't say anything. 

               "Hey, Carla," I want to put my hand on hers, but I refrain from touching. "What's wrong?"

               I gesture towards the couch and take a seat. On one end is my backpack from earlier, still yet to be put away. The large pocket was open, nearly spilling end-of-year classwork - essays I had yet to edit, posters I needed to outline, books to finish, pages of calculus work. A binder full of flute music that had to be prepared for a concert in five days. It all came as a flooding reminder to me that graduation was in a week and a half, and my best friend was moving in two. I don't even remember where I put my graduation gown.

               Each handful had to be around an eighth of a cup, did I have four handfuls? Five? I should safely say six. That's three quarters of a cup, how big was the-

               "Tyler hasn't texted in four days."

               I had known him for a few months now. He was a guy two years older than me and planned on becoming an electrician. We had exchanged social media and texted each other quite often. I warned her about getting involved with a guy that she met at a park and had catcalled her for lord's sake, but I also wanted her to be happy. And he seemed nice.

               "Maybe he's on a trip, or there was a family emergency." I wanted to reason with her, to give her an explanation that would provide ease, but her body remained slumped over. I noticed in the lazy way she sat that her thighs bulged at the ends of her patched shorts. A part of me cringed at the sight, at how careless she was about the way she appeared. Needless, disgusting, unattractive amounts of fat. She had no control over herself.

               Break down fractions. How many quarters are in a third? Should I estimate? No, I can multiply. Get exact numbers. Twelfths, I need to convert to twelfths-

               "He won't answer any of my calls. I've texted him so many times asking him if he needed space, if something happened, what went wrong-"

               She broke down, her wide face growing scarlet as tears trickled down her cheeks and soft chin. I awkwardly pulled her to me, a hold that wasn't quite a hug. It felt like I was consoling a small child.

               How many calories per twelfth? Divide the serving, from thirds-

               "Did I do bad?" She asked. I let her talk; these questions were just vocalized inner monologue. "What about me wasn't good enough?"

Her nails dug into her thighs, her other hand feeling for collarbones too buried under fat to be visible.

               "I know I'm not as small as I should, I'm trying. I told him. I promised him I would be the way he wanted me and get small and pretty. Am I just not good enough anyway?"

               I rubbed a thumb into her plump shoulder, not entirely sure of what to say. I wanted to comfort her, to say the right thing, but my tongue was suddenly a thick mass of flesh blocking words from coming out of my mouth.

               "Why doesn't anyone want me?"

               My face stung and my heart ached as I slumped over onto the couch, holding myself in the silent, empty household. My phone remained still and soundless in my pocket, my last message remaining unanswered.

               I pat my stomach, looking at myself from the side in the mirror. I frowned at the bloat.

               Behind me on the bed was a package. A shirt that I had ordered recently - a cropped halter top. I haven't tried it on yet to see if it fit. A part of me was terrified to.

               "Good lord," Marilyn rolled her eyes at me. "Just try it on. Otherwise, it’s just going to sit here, and you’ll never know how it looks."

               I timidly took off my own shirt and slipped on the new one. Marilyn maintained that unamused and repulsed look as I did this, forcing a smile as I adjusted the shirt on my body. Below the ribcage, my stomach was exposed to just beneath the belly button.

               "Is it okay?" I ask, not even able to look at her as I turn back to the mirror, immediately disappointed. The fabric was tight to skin, my stomach not concaving in the ways I wanted it to. I felt for my hip bones. 

               "It's," Marilyn took a moment to find the words. She was slender and beautiful, elegant in the way she moved in clothes that were tight and lacey as if she were a model. She could pull off anything. And any boy. I couldn't recall a time that she wasn't dating someone. "It looks nice."

               She pat my lower stomach once, my body instinctively retracting away from her bony hand as she plastered an even faker smile. "I think high-rise shorts would go very well with it."

               As she turned around to sit back on the bed, I hurried to change out of the top and back into my baggy shirt from before. The shame didn't disappear from my face, still burning my cheeks.

               "I'm going to use the restroom quick." I told her.

               "Yeah, yeah."

               I walked down the hall and locked the bathroom door, my eyes immediately landing on the toilet. I pulled my hair back and made quick work of spilling my guts into the porcelain basin. Tears sprung in my eyes, saliva and half-digested matter hanging from my mouth, my torso aching for the second time today.

               As soon as Marilyn saw me when I walked back into the bedroom, her expression was struck with something along the lines of satisfaction. Or maybe she was on the brink of impressed. I hoped that my shirt hung off my shoulders more loosely, that my midsection was just that much smaller.

               "See, Carla?" She extended a hand towards me. An open invitation. She was laid on the mattress all laissez-faire, her curves elegant and skin tightly stretched over joints in the most delicious way. "Not that difficult."

               Even beyond the ache in my muscles, I could feel another ache return - hunger. I was about to open my mouth to voice it, but Marilyn put a little finger to my lips, a lazy, lovely smile on her face.

               "You had breakfast, you'll be fine. Drink some water if that's what you gotta do."

               I went to grab the water bottle on my nightstand but stopped myself. Marilyn saw my self-discipline, my control, and smiled wider. With the relieving empty feeling in my stomach, I suddenly realized how much I didn't want it to go away. I could suck in my stomach so much further, fit into so many more clothes, fit into the same mold that Marilyn had. The mold that she wore so perfectly and got her everything that made my body burn with envy.

               Before I could even say anything, she had snatched my hip - a spot that made me jolt, conscious of the amount of flesh and fat that covered there - and yanked me onto the mattress.

               I felt too soft - too much - too big-

               In an instant I was beneath her, and propped up on her elbows she looked me over. With a soft giggle, I felt the hand that was at my hip slowly inch up my waist and ribs. I shuddered, trying to remain calm while my anxious mind ran rampant.

               Fat- she can feel everything- I need to get her to stop- but it's soft, affectionate? I never thought- I've never felt this before- Nobody has ever wanted to-

               She retracted her hand away, seeing how still my body was.

               "You good?"

               It took me a second to find my voice. It took everything in me to make eye contact. God, this was embarrassing.

               "Y-yeah. I'm fine."

               "Can I-?"

               "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead."

               Her hands snaked their way up my nape and to my chin, lifting my face up. I prayed that her fingers could feel my jaw, that the hallow in my cheeks and protrusion of my cheekbones were enough to be remotely comparable to hers.

               Every graze of her skin upon mine sent electric pulses that made me shudder. She held my chin gently, so gently, and rubbed her thumb into my bottom lip. Every brush against my mouth shoved away the worry in the rest of my body. It was like a quiet reaffirmation that I had done enough, that I was enough, that I did good-

               Her thumb slipped between my lips, my teeth, and rested on the tip of my tongue. Her skin was soft and warm. Tasted delicious - like candy.

               My mind continued to wander to the place where I imagined her holding me, my tongue caressing that thumb of hers as she shoved it into the back of my throat. I imagined the weak reflex, the way that very little demand would have to be made of my body to force the stomach to expel its contents. To make the entirety of me submit to her.

     I welcomed every second of it with open arms.

I still clung onto the toilet seat, saliva dripping from my lip, and allowed my pointer finger to pry my throat until my body convulsed again. I let the tears slide down my face and into the basin, reveling in the empty feeling in my stomach. It made the thoughts of graduation, school, and Tyler manageable.

Until I heard the suburban pull into the garage. I hurried to clean myself up and rid of the evidence of my activities from the last hour and a half, popping a mint into my mouth.