Lies in the Shower

She sits, sullen, her fingers wrapped curved tightly around the steering wheel. Her stomach feels like it’s going to explode. She indulged, once again, in rich foods she could not resist. She had thought she could resist the temptation, the calling of her name when faced with the menu. She had even grabbed a sandwich on her way to meet her girlfriends for their weekly girl’s time. After much debate over email, Shuri decided that the girls should meet for dinner in Minneapolis. Let’s go to Azia, she wrote. It’s hip and the food’s delicious. Tuna Carpaccio, the Malaysian Skewers, Avocado Crisprolls, Spicy Lettuce Wraps, Grilled Pork with Apple Plum Chutney, Pacific Blue, Cranberry Curry, Crispy Crab Salad, and of course, the desserts, the Sweet Rice with Fresh Mango, the Azia Reserve Zinfandel Chocolate Cake, and her killer, the Flan.

In her rearview mirror, she sees a short Latino man opening the passenger door. His wife, his girlfriend, perhaps, of mixed heritage – she looks Asian, White, and Latina – steps out, laughs at something he says, grabs hold of his outstretched hand, and he closes her door. They’re both dressed for an evening of intimacy, her short flirty skirt sways across her knees, her gold necklace dangles in the crevice of her cleavage, his shiny black shoes matched by the leather jacket that shows off his physique, the jet black hair groomed in place to look effortless. Hand in hand, they stroll and enter the place she had just left. It’s 10 p.m., bedtime calling to her girlfriends with families waiting at home, while she wants to party until she’s too tired to fall asleep.

Driving home, she doesn’t see the beauty of the river as the moon dives down into it. She barely notices the cars that zoom past hers. There’s no rush. She drives at the speed limit. Home is empty and she hates being alone. Her cell phone vibrates in the passenger seat. Her heart flutters. She sees that it’s Jack. She marks the call for voicemail. Jack only calls when he’s lonely and bored. Tonight, she’s not in the mood to be his buddy-call. Tonight, she wants to be with someone, anyone, for company, laughter, and warmth. It’s too cold in her house, it’s too silent. She doesn’t want to go home.

Heels in hand, she treads up the stairs of her deck, and enters her home. There’s a faint odor in the air and she reminds herself to take out the trash. She walks into each room and turns on each light. It consoles her. At least she doesn’t have to be in the dark. She undresses as she makes her way to the shower. She lets down her hair from its coiffure, shaking her curls out. Arm stretched behind her back, her fingers search for the zipper to release her body from the tight-fitting red dress she specifically chose because it accentuated her best assets – her hips, her bosom, her red lips. The dress falls to the ground as she reaches for her bottle of Lancôme make-up remover. Cotton pad in her fingers, she begins to erase the successful, happy, and beautiful woman she portrayed to the world tonight. With each removal, she dares not look at herself in the mirror, but she can’t stop herself from catching a glimpse of the woman she really is.

She turns on the hot water and lets the steam collect in the bathroom. The mirrors fog up and she turns on the cold water tap. Stepping into the shower, her body shudders briefly and relaxes as the warmth seeps into her bones. Her hair dangles across her face and she closes her eyes. She wants to stay like this for a while. Warm, safe, and ... then she remembers the food she had eaten earlier. Her body starts to convulse. Her stomach starts to churn again. The muscles in her throat start to tighten. Her right hand grabs her throat. She can’t help herself. She kneels in the tub and grabs the shower bowl she keeps nearby. She feels like she needs to vomit. She knows she shouldn’t, she knows that too much will harm her voice, the voice that is her most precious asset. You’ve eaten so much, the little voice nags her. You’ll get fat. You won’t be able to fit in your dress again. No one will like you if you keep eating like that. Yes, she reasons, it’s okay. I don’t do this all the time, she reassures herself. No one needs to know. And two fingers in her mouth, gagging, she makes herself detoxify. She recognizes most of the food she had ingested earlier and she can taste again the food that had made her wanton, but this time, the taste of bitterness attached to it.

Over and over, she forces herself to vomit until she can no longer feel any solids in her system. Disgusted, she rinses herself in the water still falling from the shower head. She soaps her hands and rinses them clean. She washes her face, her lips, and gargles water in her mouth to take away the bitter after taste. She can’t bear to look at the waste that lies in the shower bowl. But she knows she has to make it disappear. Quickly, she steps out of the shower, water dripping all over her green rugs, and she dumps the excess food into the toilet bowl. She watches as it goes down the drain. Shower bowl in hand, she rubs soap into the bowl and washes it, once, twice, three times, until she can’t feel the grease and grime on the plastic anymore. Feeling better, she finally takes the shower she’s needed all night to clean her body, her soul.

Wet hair wrapped in a towel around her head, her cotton t-shirt on that barely covers the bottom of her buttocks, slippers on her feet, she sit on her leather couch and watches television. She takes a sip of hot tea, and the liquid sears the inside of her throat. She gulps and feels guilty for succumbing to the nagging voice insider her head. But don’t you feel better now? It asks her. I’m hungry, she quietly says. She gets up and heads towards the refrigerator. She looks around. Hand against her stomach, standing in front of the empty refrigerator, she shakes her head and sighs. Okay, I’m going to bed now. She walks through the house and turns off all the lights. All except for the lamp light in the living room. Just in case I wake up in the middle of the night, she tells herself. Closing her eyes, she whispers, I’m okay.