The Diet

Georgia Armstrong

I wake up with a scream stuck in my throat. Despite your best efforts, it is the only thing left that is keeping me full.

You cook me breakfast every single morning. I’m not sure why you still bother to. But you are a chef, and you love to cook, and don’t worry, I understand the irony of you ending up with someone like me. I walk out of the bedroom, and I see you plating me breakfast, your coat on and your bag thrown over your shoulder. Even if it makes you late, you still do it. You have toasted sourdough bread, with sliced avocado and a fried egg on top, dressed with chili oil and scallions. It is, by all means, a healthy and filling meal. But I think about the oil you used bleeding into me, the bread blossoming like a flower in my stomach.

You kiss me gently, “I gotta go!” you say, “Have a good day, baby. I made you breakfast.” And you are out the door. I let the door close softly before I hold the plate of food up to my face. I take in a steady, deep breath. It smells heavenly. I want to take a bite, let it explode in my mouth, let yolk run down my chin, feel the crunch of freshly toasted bread. I feel tears welling in my eyes because of how much I want it, how much I want to eat this food that you’ve lovingly made for me, but I know that I won’t.

I open the trash can and throw the food out, the egg clinging to the side of the black bag. I stare at it for a few minutes, sitting there, and then in shame, I pull a the paper towel from the roll and place it on top so you won’t see the discarded food. I make a black coffee, and I eat an apple. I don’t want to, but I have to. It’s been five days, after all.

I think about the avocado toast in the trash the entire time I’m getting ready.