Content warning: disordered eating
“No offense Iz, but that man would eat you alive.” Shaina’s eyes danced as the new designer disappeared into a frosted conference room.
“Why? Because I’m fat and he’s beautiful?” Izzy toyed with the expensive gold bracelet she’d bought recently on the advice of her therapist; a reward for a body part she liked. Her wrists were the most delicate thing about her. She was thinking about getting a tattoo there; something that would peek out of her long-sleeved blouses.
Shaina sighed. “Yes he’s beautiful, but in no world is a size 12 anything a worthwhile man would have an issue with.”
There was no question mark; Shaina was not looking for an answer, so Izzy swallowed her words about being closer to a 14 or 16. Shaina only wanted a debate when her answers were about copy, which was good because that was Izzy’s job and Shaina was the director of the department. Izzy had started working at Albion Creative straight out of college and they had quickly hopped over the line of professionalism and into a comfortably argumentative friendship.
Izzy tried to hold her tongue—she knew she would not win—but she couldn’t help herself. “I’m a 16 on a good day—”
“Don’t care, and that doesn’t sound like a good day. He’d destroy you because that man gets around. I can tell. Look at him.”
Izzy did look at Alwyn. She looked at him a lot, and when she did, she felt close and suffused with heat, even in their cold open office plan.
“But shoot your shot.” Shaina was still talking. “You’d be cute together. Little Kewpie doll and white Jason Momoa. I can see it.” Her voice had become speculative, which made Izzy nervous.
“Cool, thanks.”
“Get an invite to one of those underground supper club things he does. Then get me an invite.”
“Supper club?” Izzy stopped staring at Alwyn’s silhouette through the conference room window, his body large and graceful as he moved through PowerPoint slide decks. There was laughter, then applause. She touched her bracelet again. Maybe some creeping ivy would make a nice tattoo. Her first apartment in the city had been covered in creeping ivy and she had loved it, even though it was causing what her landlord called structural issues. He’d also told her with complete earnestness that she’d be really beautiful if she lost some weight, just like 20 or 30 pounds, and his brother was a doctor and could get her on some pills, would she be interested in that?
“How am I so old and still know more about what goes on here?” Shaina’s nails drumming on her desk interrupted her thoughts. “I’m relying on you to keep me up to date.”
“You’re not old,” Izzy said reflexively. She still didn’t know Shaina’s exact age; she could be anywhere between 30 and 60.
“Thank you.” Shaina said. “He throws these underground dinner parties at his place. Sounds like your kind of deal.”
It did sound like her kind of deal, but there was a problem; the idea of chowing down in front of a man — a beautiful man who she had to work with someday —made her blood run cold. But again, it did sound like her kind of deal, it really did: she liked secrets and underground events and feeling like part of a private club. In college, she’d thrown parties in an abandoned candy factory two miles from campus. You had to have a golden ticket to show up, and no one knew she was the host. They were epic and always on the verge of being shut down, but she kept an ear on the police scanner and slipped the word along when someone made a noise complaint and everyone managed to clear out before they arrived.
Then someone discovered she was behind them, snapped her picture and put it on social media, and the comments had racked up. Cow. Fatass. Hostess with the mostess who eats too much? Hostess—that one was so fucking stupid, so dumb, and the author was a pockmarked boy with a bulbous forehead, but she’d cried for weeks.
The conference room door opened. Alwyn broke from the stream of slim men and women clad in expensive, comfortable sneakers and well-draped t-shirts and walked over to Izzy’s half-cube. Shaina made a big deal out of walking away.
“Hi.” Alwyn extended his hand and something about it made Izzy think of being helped up on a boat. She’d never been on a boat. Had she? “I wanted to introduce myself officially. I think we’re going to be working together on the Sysco account. Global flavors!” He spread his hands wide to indicate international reach.
Izzy almost laughed but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He wasn’t allowed to be hot and funny. “Hi. I’m Izzy.”
“I know who you are. I just wanted to say hello in person.” Alwyn’s eyes lived somewhere between brown and green. It wasn’t quite hazel; it made her think of leaves after it rained. She’d always loved the scent of petrichor, which her ex had said was weird. “We won that award for the US Foods campaign last year. That your team was on.”
“Yes, we make pure poetry with food suppliers and distributors.”
Alwyn laughed. “I wanted to invite you to a dinner party. I’ve been having them the last few months with small groups. It’s been fun.” He slid a black envelope across her desk.
Izzy swallowed. “Cool. Thanks.”
Izzy didn’t eat in front of other people. She could not. Or maybe she could, but as she’d explained to the nice woman in the calm office she paid a $30 co-pay a week to see, she was not ready to try. She’d done the work, completed the outpatient program, stood in a graduating class of girls who ate too much or ate too little or sometimes both. She ate balanced, boring, healthy meals, without eating to sickness or throwing it all up afterwards. But she ate them alone.
She walked to the conference room she reserved for exactly 45 minutes every day, and hell betide anyone who booked over the time or came in unannounced. She ate her sandwich and carrots and pre-packaged hummus and toyed with the envelope.
She opened it. The invitation stared up at her, simple gold lettering on a small, black card.
She shouldn’t go to the dinner.
Alwyn lived in an ivy-covered coach house in an older part of town, which surprised her; she’d been expecting a sleek, soulless condo close to douchey clubs and restaurants where you left hungry. She relaxed slightly, loosening her grip on the bottle of wine she was going to fake-drink because wine had calories, then immediately tensed up as the door swung open.
His shirt was unbuttoned just low enough to be almost too much, but not quite. His feet were bare and as beautiful as the rest of him.
“Hey, I was running late, so I got the most expensive bottle from the 7-11. I hope that pairs with whatever you’re making.” Not bad, not bad, and it worked, it was working, he was smiling.
“That sounds perfect. Come on in, everyone else is here.”
Everyone was a weird mix of people, people she’d never seen hanging out before: John and Pooja from marketing sort of made sense, but then there was Jocelyn from HR and Nick the IT guy. Surprisingly, everyone seemed to be having fun; Nick was telling a story and Pooja was laughing, a real laugh, her slender fingers touching her long throat. She was so pretty. So pretty and willowy, not like Izzy, she shouldn’t be here, she should just leave, she was about to claim illness and beat a hasty retreat but then Alwyn’s hand was at her elbow again.
“Can I take that?”
“What?”
“This.” His hand glanced down her arm, to her wrist and grasped the neck of the bottle of wine she was clutching like a lifeline.
She breathed. “Yes. Can I use your restroom?”
“Down the hall to the left, but come back soon, we’re going to start the first course in a few minutes.”
“No, I’m going to spend a really long time in there. Just destroy it.” Holy fuck. She’d chosen the nuclear option. Why was she like this?! It took her a minute to realize he was laughing hard.
“Wow. I mean, my house cleaner comes tomorrow, which makes me sound like a bougie asshole, but I don’t think I can top what you said. I mean, maybe I could. I’ll try.” He paused. “Yeah I don’t know. I need time to think.” And then she was laughing and the shame was mostly gone and they were standing there in his hallway and for a moment he looked sad, but before she could ask what was wrong, he turned around, leaving her to her confused feelings.
The bathroom was also beautiful, but in an understated way, what the design websites she scrolled through endlessly might call “masculine”. She touched the corners of her mouth, making sure her lipstick was a perfect Cupid’s bow. She was pretty. She’d always known that. If only the world didn’t make her perfectly fucking normal body a nightmare—it was the world, she knew that too. But she had to live in the world, and it was so hard.
When she walked back into the living room, Alwyn handed her a glass before she could protest. She could claim she didn’t drink but she’d already brought the wine, which he was now opening and tipping into her glass. She stared at the crimson swirl, too hypnotized to tell him to stop at the five-ounce mark she’d memorized. Five ounces. Five ounces. 123 calories, more or less. Probably more because he was still pouring and she was not going to tell him to stop. She breathed. She could have a real glass of wine. She wasn’t going to eat anything. It would be fine.
“That’s good, thanks.” She drew her glass back, almost too fast, but he was faster, pulling up the bottle with a practiced motion. She wondered if he’d ever been a bartender, but he gave the vibe of someone who came from money; if he’d worked in the service industry, it wasn’t because he had to.
“That lipstick is nice on you. It’s like plums.”
“Thanks. It’s called Bruise. Because it looks like a bruise.” Crushing it. She was crushing it, but maybe there was nothing to crush; he was so far out of her league this was just, like, two different species circling around each other.
“You’re really good with words. Glad the copy for our biggest accounts is in your hands.” He winked and disappeared back into the kitchen on the tail end of her Fuck you laugh.
She sipped her wine and looked around. Everyone looked like they had a head start on her; their eyes were glassy and their movements languorous. She blinked: Nick’s hand was on Pooja’s thigh, and she looked into it, bowing her head in a way that was so intimate Izzy felt like she was a peeping tom. John and Jocelyn whispered to each other like children, nodding at something outside the big window she couldn’t quite see. There were small, gray-green plates scattered on coffee and side tables, dusted with crumbs; she’d missed the appetizer. That was good: pretending to eat was exhausting, she needed all her energy to pull this off. She could do it; she was great at misdirection, and everyone seemed lost in their own little worlds anyway. She briefly wondered if someone had passed around drugs and was hurt that no one had offered. Did she come off like a narc?
She took a sip of her wine. She had to make this glass last all night. 123 calories. Probably more like 180; he’d given her a heavy pour. She perched on a leather recliner, feeling awkward and wondering if she should try to make conversation. She was so much better behind the scenes.
“Everyone!” Alwyn’s voice was everywhere all at once, ringing and bouncing off the walls. “Thank you so much for coming. If you’re ready, it’s time.”
Izzy watched everyone seem to rise as one, a shambling, giggling animal making its way to a burgundy wood table, which managed to look both elegant and cozy in the low light. She followed, feeling Alwyn’s eyes on her. He waited until she arrived at the table before sitting. John hoot-whistled softly, a low animal sound, and she blushed. She took another sip of wine.
On each plate was a scrap of paper with a menu.
Where you have been.
served with ale
acorn hummus with accoutrements
barley toasts with rowanberry jelly
salted chicken skewers
milk panna cotta
~
Where you are.
served with Ward 8 punch
salmon tagine and couscous
curried lobster salad
caviar and creme fraiche with potato chips
young cucumber salad with Berbere dust
mini cannoli
~
Where you are going
served with chamomile tea
honey-lavender wafers
raindrop cake with elderflower sugar syrup
White Rabbit candy
Alwyn stood at the head of the table. The room fell silent. “You’ll notice that in addition to a dedicated dessert course, there is something sweet in each portion. I have a weakness.” He smiled right at Izzy, his teeth dazzling and sharp; her breath hitched from something between fear and something else. Pooja giggled and almost fell off her chair, but suddenly Alden was at her elbow, steadying her, and Izzy relaxed. He was going for the hot girl; all was right, if shitty, with the world.
The first course looked amazing; the hummus was an earthy, creamy swirl topped with a tiny, perfect acorn; the char on the chicken skewers could’ve been a painting. Izzy felt like she was in one of the fantasy novels she used to read as a kid; a feast after the battle in the great lord’s hall. And here she was, the kitchen wench, stuffing her face while he romanced the comely lass from Sudbury—she was pretty sure that’s where Pooja had grown up. Fuck. Everything smelled amazing.
She began to move food around her plate enthusiastically. At this, she was a pro.
She let Alwyn pour her more wine. She could have another 123 calories; she was doing so well not eating. It wasn’t until the mini cannoli, which looked more like golden spring rolls filled with pillowy ricotta, that Alwyn was suddenly by her side.
His dark hair curled loose around his shoulders like a living thing. “How is it?”
“Good. Everything is amazing. Seriously, thank you, I can’t believe you do this for fun. I hate cooking.”
He smiled. “I like doing it. I wish you liked eating it.”
“What?” Most men never noticed, and if they did, they said nothing. It was uncomfortable to be reminded of the cost of what they desired.
“I’m not going to force you.” And with that he was gone, disappearing into the kitchen to bring back a cake that was perfectly round and so clear, she could see the smooth stone of the plate’s surface.
She stopped pretending to eat. No one seemed to notice; they seemed to be moving in slow motion, and she could swear they looked—not exactly pale but somehow translucent and almost soft and crumpled, like paper napkins in the rain. Mark’s head lolled backwards, his neck sinking into the top of his chair in a way that made her stomach lurch. Pooja ran her heeled foot up Nick’s leg, and it might have been sexy if her leg didn’t look like a dark piece of wood whittled almost down the bone. Theremains of the raindrop cake were dissolving, little ephemeral globs melting into the burgundy tablecloth; Alwyn had brought dessert plates, but at some point people had started grabbing it with their bare hands.
She should probably drink some water.
She walked to the restroom and sighed as she let out a welcome piss. She wasn’t 19 anymore; she should know better than to drink on an empty stomach. She splashed water in her mouth and on the back of her neck.
When she was back, the table was empty save for Alwyn. He was staring off at some point in the distance, a deposed king playing with a black napkin ring.
“Hey,” she ventured. “Where did everyone go?”
“Is-a-belle.” His eyes swung to her and she wasn’t even going to pretend she didn’t like the way his voice lingered on each syllable, her government name sounded so good in his mouth. “Beautiful Isabelle, full of sweet and vinegar, who won’t eat my very good food.”
She hung her head, caught and ashamed. “I’m sorry. It’s not you. It looked amazing. I’m just weird about eating in front of people.”
“I’m not people.” His smile was sly.
“It isn’t you.” But it was. Eating in front of people was hard; eating in front of a beautiful man was near-impossible. She briefly hated herself with a fiery passion.
“Drink with me, then.” He slid a full wine glass across the table, somehow not spilling a drop.
“Okay.”
She didn’t get a dangerous vibe, per se; it was more sad and strange in a way she couldn’t place. “Seriously though, where did everyone go?”
“They said something about a bar. MacDougal’s?”
“Oh right. People love that place.” She should’ve felt bad about being left behind, but she didn’t. As she sat down, she noticed that Jocelyn’s purse was hanging off a chair. “She left her bag.” She reached for it, but Alwyn stayed her hand.
“I’ll head out later and give it back to her.” His face was suddenly close. “Drink. Drink this not very good wine you brought.”
She drank. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’ve had better.”
“Bring it out; I like wine.” She hadn’t flirted in what felt like forever, and now she was coming on like a sorority girl.
“Your friends drank it all. But I do have something. Stay there.” He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with what looked like a chocolate-covered ball. “Tartufo. Blood peach, honeycomb, and sweet cream. More chocolate in the center.” He pulled up a chair across from her and cracked the top with a spoon. “Go on.” His eyes were hungry.
She sat back. “I’m good.” Being wanted was a helluva drug; it sat luscious and heavy on the tongue. She was absolutely getting an ice cream cone on the way home.
“I can see that.” He tapped the shell again, harder this time, and the inside was revealed: creamy scoops of gold and white and pink.
“That looks amazing.” She pumped the earnestness into her voice—fuck it, this was bizarro world and she might as well lean in. “You must have spent a lot of time on it.”
“Brat.” His eyes shone with delight.
“You can’t deal with someone not eating your food!”
He exhaled and leaned in. She didn’t dare move or breathe.
“I just don’t think—” He reached his hand out and laid it on her stomach, that monster, but his touch was so soft and questioning that she jerked but did not move away, just put her hand over his to keep it there. “—you should drink on an empty stomach.”
His long, slim fingers explored her waistband. She suppressed a shiver of revulsion for her gut, but then his hand did something else and she breathed out. “Why did you ask me to come?”
“I like to have hot people at my parties.” He kissed her; he tasted like wine and apples.
“I’m not a pity fuck.” Her voice was quiet and strong.
“Oh, Isabelle.” His eyes were very green as he took her hands and pulled her up, a natural carnivore, a Venus flytrap. “I don’t do pity.”
His bedroom was spare and clean, almost like a hotel; she had the fleeting thought that the bed had never been slept in, but the idea dissolved under his hands and mouth and tongue and, after an excruciating eventually, other parts as well.
Sometime later, they lay next to each other in the dark. The window was open and it was a little cold; summer was turning to fall. She looked at him lying next to her, his body impossibly long and lean and pale.
“Like what you see? Want to touch?” His leer couldn’t quite make him ugly.
“Gross. And I already did.” She sat up and steeled herself for what she was about to say next. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m always hungry.” He pulled her down and more time passed before they got up again.
“Okay but I actually am hungry.” She reached for her phone. “I can order something.”
“Don’t.” He got up and put on pants (no underwear, she noted) and a shirt. “My place is hard to find. Delivery drivers always get lost.” He stopped. “You’re sure though? I can go away.”
“Yeah.” She didn’t want to explain the rules of her brain to him, why she was okay with eating in this moment but would probably be weird again tomorrow.
They walked to a sleepy pizza place a few blocks away. The owner gave them free garlic knots and said he was about to close up, but they could stay until he did.
She ate with slow, measured bites. It was hard; she was acutely aware of his eyes on her. He sighed.
“I’m not a good boyfriend. But I do like you.”
She blinked. “I didn’t ask you to be my boyfriend.” She hadn’t even thought it, surprisingly. Maybe this was what her therapist kept talking about with being “in the moment”.
“I know. I just like to be honest with people I like.”
“Why are you a bad boyfriend?” She bit into the garlic knot. It was good because even a bad garlic knot was good, but not good enough that she wanted another.
“I have other loyalties and they will always come first. I have a bad temper and sometimes I’m not kind.”
She stared at him. “Thanks for telling me, I guess. Are you, like, working on it or anything? Going to therapy?”
It was his turn to blink. “Why would I work on it? What’s there to work on? It’s my nature. Just like you don’t eat in front of people.”
“That’s not my nature. It’s just something about me.” Her face was warm. She tossed the rest of the garlic knot in the trash. “I should get going.”
“I’ve made you angry.” He touched her arm. Somehow, his hands weren’t greasy. She wondered briefly if he shat gold.
“I just want to believe people can change. I want to believe that I can change.”
He shrugged. “I’m not people.”
She laughed. “Okay. If you say so.”
“You don’t know anything.” His face was so handsome. “You dumb, pretty thing, you don’t know anything at all.”
She took a step back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Her feelings were everywhere when she arrived at the office the next morning.
She worked and went to meetings and avoided Shaina, who hovered around her like a mother hawk.
Alwyn never came in. Neither did John, Pooja, Jocelyn, or Nick from IT — she could hear the guy they called in for Nick’s backup grumbling at being pulled away from his staycation. They were probably hungover. She certainly was.
Shaina caught her at lunch; she literally stood in front of the refrigerator.
“Are you going to let me get my lunch?”
“In a minute. How was it?”
“It was fun. Kind of weird.”
“Izzy! You hooked up. I knew it. He was here this morning and said he was leaving leftovers from last night and then he had to leave, some family emergency.”
“I missed him?” For some reason that undid something in her; she covered her face with her hands.
“Oh no, I’m sorry. Was he a creep?”
Izzy shook her head. “No! Can I tell you about it later? I just want to eat lunch and then I’ll tell you.”
She was shocked by Shaina’s arm around her but leaned into it. “Whatever you want. If he was a creep, I’ll kill him.”
“He wasn’t a creep. I promise. Just kind of weird.”
She opened the fridge and saw a green box with her name on it. She carried it back to her desk like it was a bomb, then opened it: she was met not with food but a delicate pile of dead leaves and little yellow flowers. She reached in gingerly and touched leather; a pile of wallets, a card, and a little box. She opened the wallets; they contained the cash and driver’s licenses of John, Pooja, Jocelyn, and Nick.
“Fuck,” she whispered. She read the note:
Isabelle –
Your co-workers won’t need these where they’re going – do with them what you will. I am sorry about how last night ended. I do not know if I can change, or even if I want to, but I hope our paths will cross again. I understand if you have other suitors in the meantime, but I will look for you when the veil between our worlds grows thin.
Until then,
– Alwyn
The little box held a necklace; a gold chain with the cork of her wine bottle dangling from the end like a wink. She placed it in her desk drawer and locked it, then stared into space for a minute before getting up and walking to the lunchroom.
“Shaina.” She put her hand on her co-worker’s shoulder; maybe she was someone who touched people casually; maybe she always had been. “Can we go to lunch?”
Rosamund Lannin reads and writes in Chicago. Her work has appeared in places like Strange Horizons, Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Tor.com, and Vice. She’s currently working on a novel about live action roleplaying (LARP) and the nature of fantasy (if you’re an agent, she’d love to talk).
Translunar Travelers Lounge 