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Erosion
by Cesca Janece Waterfield She finally shared her secret: she was in the last stages of overcoming bulimia. After a long pause, he asked if she still vomited, and she answered truthfully. There were occasional urges, usually when a t.v. news sound byte or "well intentioned" person circled round a dark remembrance, or a new development in the case. On those afternoons, she admitted, she occasionally succumbed to old behavior. But now, all was new. The months before they met had offered enough woe. In his early pursuit, she found wonder. Ah, the amnesty of amor, she thought one evening as she stepped onto a bus that would deliver her from dusk to his bright bed. Between the two, she was pliant. Hadn't he said as much? As she pushed from beneath his playful pinion, scattering the afternoon at her heels as she climbed the steps? It's like you were made in some laboratory just for me, he said one winter night. With indifference, he waved, You're not like the others. You're… easy. She smiled, and tightened her arms about her, thinking the lazy snowfall outside had brought on this chill; that her heart wobbled at his words for joy. She was learning. A classmate dropped her off after class one night. At the sound of the car idling outside, he appeared at the upstairs window, glass of red wine in his hand outlined against the far white wall, his gaze dark. Later they lay together, his breath tickling the fine hairs on the back of her neck. How are your bowel movements, Ava? She opened her eyes suddenly, uncertain why she'd misheard, close as they were. From a gentle slumber she was now alert, listening. I mean, your skin hangs. He clasped her hip and encouraged her: Look in the mirror sometime. She weighed no less than the day they met. No less, she remembered, than the recent morning he'd knelt in the shower to soap her lovingly. In dressing rooms, in the glaze of windows on Grace Street on crisp sunny days, she began to scrutinize her belly. This was no impasse, she knew. This was the constructive opportunity to see herself in the eyes of an honest man. This was love, and she was learning. One morning she woke to mutters and scuffling downstairs. She crept down to see him bent into the refrigerator, chucking items into an open bag that he clutched with his left hand. With curiosity, she watched. He suddenly turned to her and said with a calm made disconcerting by the intensity with which he enunciated: You KNOW I'm un-em-ployed. And you come heeere… He paused, bag in hand, and walked briskly three steps nearer her. Blue eyes fixed at her forehead, he screamed: You don't wrap my food! The en-tire refri-ger-ator has gone bad! Sherry TOLD me! I should dump youuuuu! Heart pounding, she returned upstairs to shower. She examined her belly as she dressed. Before she left, he touched her hand with remorseful assurance: It was early. I'm just that way when I first wake up. He embraced her: You'll learn. She stepped onto his porch and kissed him with a grin, one that wavered with each block she passed in this new city. He was tired, it was early, it was late. She was learning.
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