Jason tears a piece of wheat bread and holds a peace across the wooden table to my lips. He wants me to eat from his hand. I hesitate. Is he concerned I’m not eating enough? Is that why he’s forcing bread down my throat?

Isn’t it undignified to eat from a man’s hand on the third date? I’m scanning through my mind’s extensive list of dating rules as he shoves the bread closer to my mouth. I open, clasp the buttery bread between my teeth and bite. A drop of warm butter dribbles down my chin, leaving a path as it washes away makeup. Jason immediately follows with a napkin and wipes my chin clean.

It’s bizarre to be doted on so much. Actually, it’s plain creepy. Jason must be host to a herd of insecurity parasites. This is why he tries so hard to be debonair. They infest his brain and nibble away at his true personality. None of his smiles are genuine. I think he must write pre-date scripts to avoid silence. Silence allows the parasites to flourish.

“See, I’m gonna fatten you up, eventually.” In the murk of dim lights, Jason’s blue eyes look gray. Now he’s offended me and I want to poke those peepers out with my salad fork. Why do people always make rude comments about putting meat on my bones?

“Are you saying I’m too thin?”

“No, you are almost the most beautiful woman I’ve ever dated.”

“Thanks.”

“No really.” He leans in. I’m willing the candle in the center of the table to flame-up his goatee. “You’re like a porcelain doll. You’re tiny and lovely. You’re a fragile beauty.”

When did he script that piece of mediocre poetry, last night or a few minutes before dinner? What’s he after anyway? Who am I kidding? He wants to get laid. Isn’t that the ultimate goal of every man on a date, in the entire universe, at any given moment?

Tiny isn’t beautiful. Bettie Page is beautiful. She wasn’t tiny. She was a full-bosomed beauty. She had the bold features of a true woman, not these gangly legs and bony knees. She possessed curves that make Pamela Anderson look like a mailbox with silicone implants. When you look at Bettie Page, you think alluring temptress not petit porcelain doll. I want to be Bettie Page beautiful.

“Fragile? I’m not fragile, not beautiful either.”

“You’re modest. I respect that.”

“Is respect an emotion? An action? A state of mind? What is respect?” I’m guessing he’d call respect the thing that makes him wonder if a small woman like myself is as flexible as a pipe cleaner. He wants to see if I can fit my legs behind my head or if he can toss me around the bedroom like a rag doll to any position he can dream. That’s what guys think about. That’s not respect.

Now, I’ve screwed with his script. I can imagine the parasites scurrying to his brain stem to take a chunk out of his thinking processors. I’m sure he can be a very intelligent, quaint man when he relaxes. That’s why I keep dating him. I’m waiting for him to tackle all those inner monsters who force him to stutter and stumble through our conversations. I’m looking for the day when the relationship becomes real. Besides, he’s attractive enough to pull-off wearing Speedos at the pool, where we met, and I’d like to see him fit his legs behind his head.

“Respect…er…um…well...resp…” I’m drawing a dotted line between Jason’s eyes and mine, when I see the broad waistline of the waitress appear beside our table.

“Good evening. I’m Paula and I’ll be your waitress this evening.” Her voice discharges shards of ice into my blood stream, it’s too familiar.

“Christen! I haven’t seen you in forever.” It’s the Paula I worked with in High school at a tanning salon. She once confessed that tanned cellulite looks better than plain white cellulite.

“Hi Paula. How are you?” I smile. How does my face manage to project such friendliness when inside all I can do is choke on my wretched bitchiness?

“Great.” Paula flips her brown hair to the other side of her round face. It’s great to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too.”

“You haven’t changed at all,” she chants.

“Neither have you.”

“You’re still a toothpick!” Paula giggles and her potbelly jiggles.

“And you’re still one fat ass pig!” A blue-haired-arthritic-duo, seated next to us, clasps their hands over gaping dentured mouths.

“Christen?” Jason breaks into harsh laughter.

“Yeah well I can’t get used to the taste of vomit.” She flops the menu’s down and the candle blows out. “I can’t get into cramming my fingers down my throat. You’ve always been the one good at that. Bitch.” She pounds off.

Why is it that no one even flinched when she called me a toothpick but now I’m the bitch for calling her a pig?

Maybe this is one of those grass is always greener varieties of insecurity.

I bet Paula never imagined that the scrawny girl with huge glasses in Jr. High stuffed her panties with shoulder pads she ripped out of her shirts, to give her a more desirable full ass. She didn’t notice how that one girl never wore shorts to class because someone in 6th grade laughed at her chicken legs. My senior year in high school, I didn’t go to the senior swim party because as I stood in front of the mirror contemplating my reflection, I decided my collar bone juts out too sharply and when I turn a certain way you can see a rib or two. I have my own insecurity parasites and rumor has it, they’re tapeworms.

I eat as much as any other person, if not more. I don’t have to excessively exercise, over-dose on laxatives, or vomit-up my lunch to stay thin. I have a fast metabolism.

I’ve been asked if I’m anorexic before. I’ve heard rumors about myself. I know exactly how Calista Flockheart felt when the tabloids reported she had an eating disorder. Is it so hard to believe some people are just naturally thin and petite? I hope she’s not anorexic. I hope she proves to the world that some girls don’t have to torture themselves to be thin. She probably does puke her little famous guts out in her dressing room, though. Even I find myself judging. Speculating.

“What came over you?” Jason finally manages to quit laughing.

“I don’t like that girl. Never have.”

“No really? Couldn’t tell.”

A different waitress returns to the table. I manage to be somewhat polite to this one while we order and she brings us our food.

“Have you ever tried sushi?” I ask while trying to clamp a piece of sweet and sour pork between chopsticks.

“No way, just the thought of it makes me want to puke.” He’s testing me.

“Contrary to popular belief, I never puke.”

“This is a nice topic to discuss over dinner.”

“Thank the fat pig over there, she brought it up.” I take another sip of my iced tea. The cold liquid roller coasters through my pipes and suddenly I have to piss like a three-year-old in a watermelon eating contest. Only, I just devoured my entire dinner and if I go now, Jason will think Paula’s right and I’m vomiting it all up in the toilet. Just hold it. Wait. I cross my legs so tightly my left foot starts to fall asleep. Jason looks at me raising one eyebrow.

“You ok?”

“Just peachy.”

Jason wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So how’s the exciting world of apartment leasing?”

“About as fulfilling as a saltine cracker and not half as exciting.” I thought that was whimsical for about a half second after I said it. His face is stoic. Why did I have to compare something to food? “So, what about the advertising business?

“Advertising is the most superficial, cut-throat business I can imagine. I do ok, though. It’s all about perception.”

“Perception or deception?”

“Both!” I watch Paula refill another customer’s glass. The fresh alluring sound of liquid leaving a cold glass assaults my bladder. The ice floats to the top. Damn it! She did that on purpose.

I shift my weight a few times trying not to look too squirmy. Then Jason takes a long swig of his coke. If I don’t go this very instant, the guy busting tables will have more to clean-up than what’s in his job description. Whether Jason thinks I’m tossing my fried rice or not, I have to go.

“Excuse me.” I stand and dash towards the restroom. My heel slides on the tile when I swing open the door.

I stand in front of the giant gold trimmed mirror after emptying myself. Why is it these damn fluorescent lights in public bathrooms are so proficient at highlighting every flaw on a woman’s face? My teeth look huge! Anorexic women always look as if they have horse teeth. I think it’s from the concaved cheeks. I apply a thick coat of Café Pink lipstick.

When I was a toddler my mom entered me in Beautiful Baby Pageants. I’ll never forget my mother’s fashion advice to me. “Lipstick makes your teeth look better. Always wear your hair down because your ears stick out too much. Try to suck in your tummy when you’re on stage.” She was the typical aggressive stage mother. She discussed all my flaws with the hairstylist and make-up artist in my presence. She had to make sure they covered up my “not so pretty traits”. When I was 7 she decided I didn’t have what it takes to be a winner. I wasn’t pretty enough. Her and my Dad started working on making a new little sister for me, a winner this time. They had a boy and put him up for adoption. I’m glad my mother’s dead.

I returned to the table. Trying to stand with my knees locked so the bones didn’t stick out so far. I should have worn pants. Black is slimming and these black pantyhose make my legs look like licorice sticks.

“Are you ready, beautiful?”

“Yes.”

The stars look like specks of lint trapped on a piece of navy-blue velvet through the sunroof in Jason’s BMW. Cars are honking, squeaky-brake stopping, blinking and zooming all around us.
“There’s one of those new VW Bugs.” Jason points to a lime green Bug next to us.

“Yeah, I like those.”

My stomach makes eerie noises. I turn up the radio. He accelerates. I wonder if he heard that noise? If he did, he’s thinking my stomach acids are churning from sticking my finger down my throat in the bathroom of the restaurant and filling the toilet with chicken, pork, egg-drop soup, rice and iced tea. This reminds me that cheesecake is not on the list. Why didn’t he offer me dessert? He must have assumed I’d binged and purged and was done with food for a while. That judgmental bastard!

We zoom into my driveway. The streetlight on the corner tints my house a Ray Ban orange. The lonely maple tree, surrounded by a thick lawn, casts a monster’s shadow on the ivory siding.

Still thinking about those Speedos, I invite him inside. His eyes scan over my tan leather couch, my maple coffee table and matching entertainment center. He stops to glance at my print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. I head to the kitchen for a glass of wine.

“Would you like some wine? Some dessert? A dip in my hot tub?” That hot tub thing slipped out before I knew I said it. Now I get the, but I didn’t bring my trunks speech that always ends with me saying, “Who needs trunks?”

I open my backdoor and start-up the jets in the hot tub. Gurgling noises barrel through the silent night. I steal a line from Uma in Pulp Fiction and say, “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lambs tail.”

I poor two glasses of wine, leave them on the counter and then dash to the bathroom. I strip down to nothing and slowly spin in front of the mirror. My breasts are too small, my ass too flat, my ribs too sharp. I pull out a pair of tweezers and pluck a few hairs here and there. I coat on more lipstick, then wrap a terry cloth robe around myself, grab the wine glasses and head towards Jason, who is probably naked in the water with a stiffy by now.

When I step back outside he is in the hot tub, completely nude. That athletic body goes well with my deck. He could be a model in a home improvement catalog with that rippled chest and glowing smile. He tries to tune into a station on the radio I use when I’m tanning. Being the intuitive soul he is he found an extension cord and parked the radio close to the tub.

I inch my way to the hot tub and set the glasses down on the redwood deck. I drop the robe and start to plunge into the water as quickly as possible.

Just as I dip my toe into the bubbles, “Wow! Look at you!” I smile shyly. “That waitress was right, you are a toothpick!”

“What?” My foot snaps back onto the deck.

“Them bones, them bones, them funny bones!” He belted out that song at the top of his lungs. “Them beautiful bones!” I reach for my robe.

“You asshole!” Memories of Jessie Tyler in 6th grade taunting me with that terrible song during reading period slapped me. I closed my eyes and the scene plays-out on the inside of my eyelids like a movie screen. I see kids laughing and pointing. I feel the hot tears rolling down my cheeks. The teacher is laughing too. I run out of the room only to trip in the doorway and hit my head on the doorframe. The laughter intensifies as the bell rings and the locker-lined hallway is suddenly packed with more kids. I’m lost in the crowd, spinning in circles, looking at the ceiling when Jessie Tyler slams into to me with his meaty elbow. I fall to the ground.

“Asshole? What’s wrong with you?” Jason cocks his head to the side.

“What do you mean what’s wrong with me? I’m standing here naked in front of you for the first time and you’re laughing at me!”

“Oh no, Christen!” Once again his teeth light up the night. “I told you you’re beautiful to me.”

“To you?”

“Well, yeah, not every man may find you as attractive as I do.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” I point to the door. “Shut up, Jessie. Jessie. Jessie.” I whisper as I clasp my hands over my ears to muffle the laughter. Only the laughter is inside my head so I stick my fingers in my ears and start digging earwax.

“Who’s Jessie? You’re one crazy ass bitch! Most girls would starve themselves to be as thin as you.”

“What are you saying? Are you accusing me of something?” I scream so loudly my vocal cords constrict and I cough.

“Accusing? What are you talking about? Are you bulimic?”

“That’s it you son of a bitch.” I leap to the radio and kick it into the hot tub. Pain scales my leg. “Fuck you Jessie Tyler! Fuck you!”

Zap! It reminds me of a bug frying in a dangling electric bug zapper. Only it’s a lot louder and brighter. The whole damn backyard lights up. He quivers and convulses. His eyelids peel back into his forehead. His eyes look like Wylie Coyote’s in the moment of recognition before the Roadrunner hits him with a train or smashes him with a boulder. Then the radio gives out. He lays slumped over. The bubbles of the hot tub tickle his nose. The smell of singed hair makes me gag so I pull the hard cover back over the tub and go inside.

The power is out so I go to the circuit box and flip the breaker. The house lights up again.

I know I should be devising a plan to dispose of the body or calling 911 to act like it was a terrible accident but I’m pissed and need a little self-affirmation before deciding my next move. Finally, after years of dodging suspicion and gulping the pain of being ridiculed, I got my revenge! All those losers who judged me and speculated about how I stayed so thin will think twice before calling a poor girl a toothpick next time.

I find a package of Girl Scout cookies, Thin Mints – my favorite. I slip on my fuzzy pink slippers and sit in front of the computer. I wiggle the mouse causing my Bettie Page screensaver to dissipate. My DSL connection takes me to Anorexia.Com.

I scan through the photos of emaciated women.

“Carla Victors only weighed 45 lbs when her 5’8” frame gave out and she collapsed in a heap on an emergency room floor, in Denver Colorado.” Poor Carla, the skin between her ribs stretched so thin it was translucent. It looks like her bones could cut her if she moved too quickly. I see her top lip stretch over those huge anorexic teeth. “Carla downed tablespoons of Syrup of Ipecac nightly. Ipecac is a medicine used to make persons who have ingested poison vomit. It’s a violent form of purging.”

How disgusting. If there is one lighthouse in my sea of turmoil, if there is one candle flame to guide me through the dark tunnels of my insecurities, it is this. I will never be like Carla Victors.

“Thank God I’m not that fucked up!” I say to my Tabby cat, Amy, as I try to fit two Thin Mints into my mouth at once.