(no subject)
Nighttime Stomach
she stands at the fridge
mouth moving convulsively
counting calories
now, there is nothing in the fridge that requires anything more than a spoon, or perhaps just thirty seconds in the microwave.
she eats compulsively, spoonful after spoonful, standing at the open door of her fridge in the middle of the night. a carton of ben and jerrys. cake. an almost full bag of chips, salty and cold against her teeth. there, a half-finished tin of pate, with the buttery-rich brioche, in between swigs of the good champagne that she had been saving for their one month's anniversary.
the fridge door finally closes, sometime before dawn, and she stumbles off to the toilet to heave everything out again, before sinking down against the cool enamel of her bathtub.