eat well

hot chocolate: you drink hot chocolate and call it dinner. you refuse even an apple from a mother’s lunch bag. the sugar from the chocolate is barely keeping you warm enough to fight off the cold of georgian winters. you reminisce about the burning hot summers when you cursed the clouds for blowing away their shield from the sun. the shoes on your feet are offering no help to keep you warm, nor the hat on your head, the sweater on your chest, or the pants on your legs. your insides are coiling tighter, and all you have to stay warm is a lukewarm hot chocolate.

 

tacos: a distinct no, you tell me as we drive to the cast dinner. the loud noises of a half-a-million people in the tex-mex bar turn you away from corn tortilla shells before the waiter even set the menus down. the rest of our group discusses what they are going to eat. you look for an escape. you calculate how many glasses of water it would take to convince anyone you’ve actually eaten any real nutrients. the answer is two. no one is really paying attention. they wouldn’t even notice if you left.

 

pancakes: ihop. our sacred oasis from the intensity of a cast dinner, and for many nights after, our favorite date night spot. at times, the only food you’ll eat. your stomach hurts all the time, so you don’t eat much. nothing sits well with you, but a hot stack of pancakes with a little too much syrup will always convince you to eat, even if it’ll hurt later. i’ve considered sneaking vitamin supplements into the stack, as dog owners do to their sweet dogs with medicine. you wouldn’t fall for it, you are wiser than a dog. though, a dog will eat something other than pancakes if it were starving from the inside out.

 

sub sandwich: i’m still unsure of how i convinced you to eat a sandwich in the first place. the chips were a stretch. i was shocked when you got a cookie. the drink nearly made me flip a table. you had never shown particular interest in eating food, let alone a sandwich. based on your track record of running away from almost all food with any nutrients,  i expected you to take a single bite and throw the sandwich at me. no, instead, you ate it all. bite by bite, at a snail’s pace, but thirty minutes later, you threw away your trash with nothing in the wrapper. it fueled you for the next week and a half.

 

skittles: to date, your favorite food. though they lack any real nutritional value, they are barely food, yet you love them. any flavor will do, but especially the purple wild berry bag. you sort the bag by color and eat them in order of preference. from your least favorite blue to your beloved light pink. 

 

croissants: the first time you ever brought me to your house, we asked me if i wanted a snack. i had intended on waiting for you in the car, but you wanted to make sure i ate before rehearsals. the lights were out, and even in the afternoon, your house was dark. you got out the good china, the plastic plates kept on the top shelf of the cabinet, and you heated up two store-bought croissants in the microwave. you insisted they had to be heated for thirty-seven seconds on the dot. you ate half of your warm croissant and gave the rest to me. you disappeared before i could question it.

 

frozen yogurt: on a date in the park, sharing a frozen yogurt with one spoon, the stomach pain is worse than ever before. you say it’s fine, but the hypochondriac in me fears appendicitis and drives you home to rest and go to the doctor. you are too weak to get in the door before you collapse. i’m shoved out the door, you don’t want me to see you like this. the doctors say your appendix is fine, but i swore it would combust. you push away my worried thoughts, but you pushed too hard and shoved me all the way out of your life.

 

hospital popsicles: a year later. it is more than just the usual stomach pain, the doctors say it’s much worse than a usual ache. despite the hatred we share and the pain we’ve caused each other to endure, i feel for you. i long to send you my love. we used to joke about the very few things that would heal our endless stomach pains, namely sub sandwiches, skittles, and hospital popsicles. i pray they gave you the best flavors.

 

empty water bottles: not even immobilizing stomach pain could keep you from the stage, especially shakespeare, and when no one is looking, you throw back handfuls of skittles to fuel you for your scenes. in the dressing room, you’re all alone. everyone else is in costumes and makeup on the stage, but you take your time to get ready. unknowingly, i venture into the nearly-abandoned dressing room. you are listening to your favorite song, one that used to be ours. a big bag of skittles sits open on the counter, just like we used to share. your hair is pulled out of your face like it was when we first met. i reach for my empty water bottle like i came for it and i flee.

quesadillas: a week or two after graduation, the seniors gather in some overpriced, unauthentic mexican restaurant to recount our four years together. you sit three chairs away from me, distancing yourself. it’s for the better. you eat, actually consume food instead of pushing it around until it’s time to pay. nobody seems to notice, but i do. the quesadilla on your plate isn’t the enemy like it used to be. you are getting better. my mom would tell me i should pray on your downfall, but despite all the lives of mine that you have ruined, despite all the insults you’ve thrown my way because you’re hurt, despite all the tears you have made me cry in a moment of hatred and pain, i still wish for you to eat well. all i’ve ever wanted is for you to eat well.