A Delightful Meal

A Delightful Meal

She comes back into the house from emptying the trash; a heavy load this time. She takes a deep breath after dragging the two lumpy bags and then takes another, deeper breath, as with great effort she hoists them into the plastic barrel. Her right hand slaps the lid firmly shut as though to lock it; no escape for this trash. It is held captive until the big truck arrives and slides its two large forks into the container’s sides, lifting and tilting the refuse into its open, filthy mouth. She imagines the bags dropping into the truck with a final thump, then a slow, crunching grind as they are mashed to a weighty sliver, traveling to their final resting place at the landfill, where they are unceremoniously dumped into the ground with all the other rot.

She enters back into the house, taking the deepest breath she can summon to rid herself of the smell of them. She inhales again, a beautiful, pungent smell, lets it fill her nostrils as she sucks her breath in again, as though sampling a fine wine and grasping to savor its notes in the back of her palate. It is the smell of a fatty five-pound roast finishing its time in the oven. Her excitement builds as she imagines cutting into the meat, the sharp knife diving in, separating the meat, the succulent juices streaming out, over the knife, over the roast, and into the pot.

It’s been a long time since she’s had a good, hearty meal and she’s so looking forward to it. A pity she has to have it alone, but on the other hand, she’ll be able to eat as much as she wants without judgment, and that’s been a long time coming, too. She flattens both hands and runs them down her slight body, starting under each breast, feeling the deep cave of her ribs, and then down along the sides of her curved, tiny waistline, then further down and over the sharp indentations of her jutting hipbones. Yes, she will enjoy this feast, so long deserved.

She was not always this thin; a lifetime spent on diets, nothing working, and she can remember every one.

Junior high, when she started to see the difference in popularity between the slim girls and the fatty ones; her friends saying, “it’s simple, just quit eating, you will see, it will work,”.

High school and the protein diet to satisfy her jock boyfriend who teased her incessantly over the muffin top that showed through her t-shirts; the ones she pulled and stretched down over her too-tight designer jeans, the ones where you had to lay on the bed in, suck in your stomach, and let a friend pull the zipper up with a coat hanger. That was fun, wasn’t it? Going to parties and spending the night in pain, holding in every beer until your bladder felt ready to burst, because you knew if you went into the bathroom you would never get your pants done up to go back out again.

Then those days in university - throwing up after every bag of potato chips and chocolate bar eaten out of the vending machine during cram sessions, and then doing it again a short time later because the hunger kicked in twice as bad, and then, even worse, the office: starting her day at six in the morning with a black coffee, no milk or cream, just the coffee to wake her up and get her motivated enough to squeeze into the control top pantyhose and pencil skirts.

And then marriage, and children, and the comments from her husband, “Careful, wide load coming through,” as he glances over and chuckles to their group of friends. How she longed to look like the slim ones she would catch him staring at, but nothing seemed to work. He did his part though, he never let her forget about it, and she bought into it.

Points on Weight Watchers, shitty meals on Jenny Craig, the Grapefruit Diet, the Keto diet, taking any pill or supplement or vitamin that might strangle the desire to eat, she did it all, step aerobics, yoga, weights, the thirty-minute circuit on Curves, and then endlessly crocheting those ugly blankets to keep her hands busy and away from her mouth. For what, a few pounds off and then a few months later twice as many back on again.

But now, this delicious meal, so well deserved. Earned after being locked away for so many months, the odd plate of grapefruit and cottage cheese, or diet soda and salad with no dressing, slid through a makeshift opening into the room. Months of her rage, months of the darkest of thoughts; she even considered ending all of it and taking her own life. And then, the best, the most joyful, awakening. Her decision to move forward, to take back control, to act out the final solution.

It started with exercise, it started with the idea to welcome the paltry, insufficient meals and smile graciously when they arrived, it started with saying “thank-you, I understand now, it’s working, I’m getting better,”.

And then the plan: get strong, get fit, get slim. But this time the getting slim part was actually pretty easy. It always is when you are being starved. And then the final part of the plan: get into your captor’s confidence, gain trust, then escape.

And it worked, she got out. Before she died of starvation. And all the while she smiled, and she planned and she looked for an opportunity to get out.

She smiles. Now she has the run of the entire house, her beautiful home. She can go outside into her garden anytime, inhale the damp sweetness of her roses as much as she wants, smile and chat with the neighbors, lay in her oversize easy chair, and read any book or number of books she wishes. She loves it.

The roast is ready, the potatoes are ready, and she has made a savory, thick brown gravy to pour over both. She cuts into the meat, taking three thick, juicy slices and placing them precisely in a row on her plate, arranging each slice to slightly overlap the other, as though she’s laying out a geometric work of art or a fan of perfectly placed pamphlets for viewing. Whipped Potatoes on the side, molded into what could be a perfect breast, just nicely touching the meat, like a trophy wife sitting close to her husband.

She has dressed nicely for this meal, a size small sweater and a size 6 pair of pencil slacks, elasticized of course, no more painful, controlling clothes, things have changed in clothing too; everything has a stretch to it now, even blue jeans.

For this meal, she sits at the end of the table, not on the side like an accompaniment, not anymore. She feels the weight of the delicately scrolled silver knife in one hand, fork in the other, positively gleaming, polished to a high gloss for this grand meal - her special cutlery, handed down from grandmother to mother to her to be used for the most important dinners and events. She stifles a chuckle, “This is most certainly one of them,”. Her fork holds a slice of the meat captive, and her knife cuts into it with purpose, she knows nothing about this cut, whether it will be tender or not. Her mouth opens wide and places it carefully, and she chews, ‘Hmm, not the most tender, very tough and a little offensive, actually. but that’s okay, too,’. Her fork stabs and lifts yet another nicely-sized piece into her mouth, ‘yes, a little wild-tasting,’ she thinks, ‘but I’ll savor every bite!’ and she does.

Now she is full, she is splayed out on one of the two easy chairs in her living room, too sated to move forward out of the chair and grab the remote. To satisfied with this meal and with the result of her success to bother moving.

She really should thank him - her husband, that is. This really was the solution to her weight problem; this time, it seems to have worked! His obsession with having a wife as beautiful as an elaborately carved piece of Georgian furniture required drastic measures. And then his drastic plan, in which he fooled everyone, saying his wife had left for a world cruise while holding her captive and starving her until she was at a weight worthy of presenting to others, actually worked.

She closes her eyes, curves her mouth in the most satisfied smile, ‘A pity though, that he’s not here to enjoy it; well, ’ Her smile gets larger, ‘may he rest in pieces, yes, the best meal I’ve ever had.’.