"I am not!"
"You are freaking out over a piece of cake."
"It was a big piece!"
"You are freaking out. Over a piece. Of cake."
I rap my fingers against my knee, he doesn't get it, he'll never get it.
"I'm fat."
"It's a piece of cake."
He wants to leave; he's in the middle of a movie. So I hang up, and I walk to the bathroom. Before I'm thinking, I'm chugging water and then I'm doubled over the toilet, explaining without words that I'm repulsive.
I turn on the shower and get in, and keep going. Curled up on the bottom, I am a vision. My mascara and liquid eyeliner, both black, are running down my face and stinging my eyes red red red, the little pieces of cake stick to the dirty white of the tub.
To no one in particular, I ask, "Is this strength yet?"
"Is this eloquence? Is this grace?"
I cough, and laugh, and they both echo off the wall.
Of no one in particular, I ask, "Am I beautiful yet?"