Little plates are stacked between Terry and I. A vertical rainbow, sloughed with panko crumbs and smears of eel sauce. My stomach sits, comfortably full. I ate just the right amount. I made good food choices, pulled only the healthiest options off the conveyor belt: a fresh roll (not fried), two plates of vegetable sushi (three pieces each) and a small bowl of edamame.
With a smile and a laugh I excuse myself. I hold my hands up, "sticky fingers" I say. Ten steps from the table, the idea catches hold. The bathroom is located on the far side of the restaurant. It is a private room. It is the perfect place to purge.
After, I check my reflection. My eyes are a little glossy, but there are no other signs of my transgression. I am getting better at this. I wash my hands again, rub at the red, dimpled spot on my knuckle. A smile in place, I walk back to the table. The conversations envelopes me, barely a ripple as I submerge.
For two weeks I have binged and purged. Every day. Sometimes only once. Sometimes ten times or more. I learn something new every time. Which foods work best. The most effective methods. How to purge in a bathroom stall. I tell myself I can stop any time. This is a phase that will pass. I'm not sure if I am lying to myself. I am alive. I want to stop. I feel invincible. I am out of control.
I am afraid.