Going Down

I smell waffles. Waffles smothered in butter and maple syrup and praline pecans, something sugary and delicious. Rolling over, I pry one eye open and glance at the bright red block letters that read, 9:21. I close my eye and think, just a few more minutes, maybe another hour before I have one of those buttery… WAIT. 9:21? I have a mere nine minutes to look decent and run down to the complimentary breakfast buffet!

Maniacally, I throw on sweats, Dave’s watch and a cardigan that once fit me (that I’m now swimming in) over my father’s old 1988 Olympics T-shirt that I wear to bed, think twice before glancing at my sad appearance in the mirror, snatch up the room key and my handbag and head for the elevators. I push the down arrow, then look at my wrist. 9:26. Not too bad. I can still make it. I tap my right index finger impatiently on my left palm while waiting. I should have put on a bra. The elevator pings.

Following the signs that say “Spouse Breakfast,” I walk into a ballroom and am instantly hit with a wave of estrogen – I see an ocean of pastel, smell a distinct combination of Chanel No. 5 and maple bacon, and hear the high pitched nattering of stir crazy country-clubbers. I look around. There are no discreet places to sit—only tables of ten—and all at once I’m brought back to the dining hall at Exeter, not knowing where was socially acceptable to sit or even if I was welcome to make that choice at all. I dig a fingernail into my inner forearm to make sure my waffle dream from earlier that morning hadn’t turned into my ladies-who-lunch high school flashback nightmare. It hurts so much that I wince and leaves a red half moon imprint on my skin. Well then.

I fill a plate with bacon, eggs, waffles, potatoes, toast, a croissant (hey, when in Rome!), fruit (to appear healthy) and a trough’s worth of syrup. I sit at an empty table, hoping to devour it fast enough that no one will sit by me. A waiter named Stéphan (of course that was his fucking name) pours me a cup of coffee.

“Cream or milk,” he inquires in his heavily accented English (a French accent, which, for the record, I would have found incredibly attractive at one point in my life. Now I just can’t be bothered to make any sort of effort being friendly, let alone upping my game to flirty.).

“Cream.” I quickly dump the cream into my coffee and don’t bother stirring – I just chug it down, as I see a trio of Easter egg cardigans heading my way. The coffee cup now empty, I dump my plate’s contents into my handbag and bolt for the door. I can feel the shocked Stepford eyes on my back, I can hear the hushed whispers, but I don’t dare turn around. As soon as I reach the elevator bank, I jab repeatedly at the up button. Come the fuck on! I’m almost in the clear, until out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny blonde with bouncing, happy curls hurrying toward me. I’ve met her before but I can’t for the life of me remember what her name is. Teresa? Tara? Trina?

“You okay?” Her gigantic blue eyes are earnest and friendly. Suspiciously friendly, I think.

“Fine. Just waiting for this fucking elevator, you know?... Sorry. I mean, the elevator. Just taking forever, as usual.” The tapping starts up again.

“Well if you need anything let me know. We’re in Room 458.” She might be nice, but I can’t bear to stand here with her another second.

Ping goes the elevator.

“Yeah thanks.”

“Will we see you at dinner?”

“I guess. I mean, I hope so. I mean, yeah, yeah, I think I’ll be there. Maybe.”

I hurry inside the temporary safe house of the elevator and as the doors close, tears fill my eyes and I reach for a waffle and stuff the whole thing in my ugly, worthless mouth in one swift motion.

Back in the room, I wolf the rest of it. All the food. Must. Eat. Fast. Get rid of the evidence and fill the hole inside my heart while we’re at it. I scrape the inside of my purse, now caked with maple syrup and sundry crumbs, taking pains to lick the lining and even inside the pockets. I carelessly throw open every cupboard and wardrobe door before finding what I’m looking for—I search the mini bar, needing something to wash it down. I quickly pass over the water, frantically seeking something stronger. I opt for vodka. Down it goes. Down this ugly throat. It burns, but somehow I feel its strength and warmth once it’s down. I need more. I keep drinking, drinking, drinking. Okay. This is good… Oh god. What’s Dave going to think? No. No no no no no no no. He’s going to find out about the breakfast and the robots and the fucking handbag. How can I go to dinner tonight looking this fat? I probably just consumed a full day’s caloric intake, for Christ’s sake! I need to get it out, otherwise he’ll see I know it. I promised him I was done with that, but how’s he going to know? There are no other options. Unless there’s a fucking lipo clinic I can check myself into, I see no other choice. I find my way to the bathroom and look at the toilet. Hello, old friend. I run my fingers under warm water and… Gone. All gone.

I brush my teeth and almost feel stoned. Pulling the sweater tight around me, I crawl back into bed, switch off the light. 10:07 casts a glow over the nightstand. I pretend it’s P.M. Ahh, yes, an early night. A good night’s sleep is just what the doctor ordered. I congratulate myself for going to bed early. After all, I had a rough day.