friends.
I wanted to fuck her right there, our tongues in each other’s mouths. I wanted to ride her every last shudder, and as though she could feel what I wanted, she pulled away again. This time she did not come back.
“No,” she said. “We are not allowed to kiss other girls. At least, not like that.”
She took a step backward, then pulled out another cigarette and lit it. We were both silent.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She shook her head as if to say, No, no, no, it’s my fault, and waved her hand in the air to dismiss me, the cigarette making loops of smoke around itself.
I wanted to say, But did you like it?
The way her body shook suggested that she did.
I wanted to say, If you weren’t Orthodox, then would you want to continue kissing me? Oh, Miriam, maybe that was enough, just that you wanted to. I wondered if you wanted me, and you did!
But I didn’t say another word. I had already said and done too much. I’d crossed a line—multiple lines. Now she looked upset.
“I should go home,” she said. “It’s late.”
“Okay,” I said. “Where are you parked? Do you want me to walk you to your car?”
“No,” she said suddenly and loudly. “That’s fine. You should just go home too. Goodbye, Rachel.”
“Bye,” I said, still standing there as she turned and walked away.
CHAPTER 47
On the way to work, I made a detour to Bed Bath & Beyond so I could use one of their scales and get an accurate assessment of what was happening to me—at least from a numerical perspective.
In the bathroom accessories aisle, I took out three scales—two digitals and an analog—and arranged them on the floor. I took off my shoes for accuracy. A bald man with a toilet plunger and a StackEms T-Shirt Organizing System in his cart cleared his throat as he tried to get by. I glared at him, like, What? until he was forced to back up and use the next aisle. Then I took a deep breath and stepped onto the first scale: a chrome one, sleek, one of the digitals.
The scale took a second to think, then delivered me the news in red digits. I had gained 13.5 pounds. I felt a cold sweat rise to the surface of my skin. I stepped off the scale, then got back on again. 13.5 pounds—still the same. The numbers were so absolute, so certain and unyielding.
I moved over to scale number two, another digital. This one was black and cheaper than the first one, and I liked it better immediately. I inched my foot out and tapped the scale ever so slightly, letting the numbers go to zero. Then I stepped on.
But the news was even worse: I’d gained 14 pounds.
“What the fuck?” I said out loud.
I stepped off and let the numbers disappear, then stepped back on.
14.5 pounds!
I got on the analog scale. Its wheel spun and shook, struggling to decide my fate. But the analog scale said I’d lost 28 pounds.
I began moving from scale to scale, doing a kind of body dysmorphic waltz. 13.5 pounds. 14 pounds. 13.5 pounds. 13.5 pounds. 14.5 pounds. 13.5 pounds. A woman deliberating over a fake-gold vanity set looked at me strangely. She had her toddler and a Shark Lift-Away vacuum cleaner in her cart. I thought about my mother’s coupons. They had expired.
What was I expecting the scales would say? Did I think all that food was just going to vanish like poof? This was science! From now on there would be a very strict regime: no breakfast for me, two protein bars for lunch, and then we would see about dinner. I might even have to start doing laxatives again, or at least that herbal dieter’s tea that made you shit.
I didn’t know how I would face the day, living inside my body, a conscious being. I only wanted to sleep until all the weight came off. It was Friday; just one more day of work and then I could try to sleep through the weekend—or some combination of gym and sleep—a bare-bones death march. It was what I deserved. I felt disgusting.
Driving to work, I pressed the gas pedal down as hard as it would go, taking out my anger and disappointment on the car. On the side streets, I swerved back and forth from side to side. So what if I crashed? At least I’d get to be unconscious.
I lingered in the parking garage, walking up