Waiting

Content Warnings: bulimia, anorexia, food, allusion to vomit

A grease smell hits the air in terminal 11, and it’s like I’m standing in the middle of the county fair, except a gate attendant is threatening to take away carry-ons. Steph has found the source: A fried chicken stand that’s open at 9:45 a.m. Before I can stop her, she’s ordered about 20 double breaded, extra crispy chicken tenders.

“This’ll just take a sec,” she says.

But I’ve been here before—waiting, while she goes somewhere for just “a little while” and comes back wiping her mouth and smelling of peppermint. I wonder where the grease goes, if it collects in the crevices inside—all thick and white, like Crisco, like jars of bacon fat left in the refrigerator. Even for a second, it might collect, so I avoid. Deny the rumblings inside my stomach. Tell myself it’s not for me.

“Just one sec more,” she says as she runs to the bathroom, leaving me with her bag. I hear the gate attendants call the first boarding group, and I size up my carry-on. It’s not that big. It should fit. I should get on, let Steph fend for herself. I’ve waited long enough. The gate attendant announces the next group, and then the next. There’s only room for one more bag.

Steph finally comes out of the bathroom, wiping her mouth; the air system kicks on, stirring the peppermint, but also, something else. I sense something else that’s always been there, underneath, but I’d never let myself notice it—until now: butyric acid. And when Steph straightens the ribbon on her ponytail, I see it’s hiding missing strands of hair, the scalp poking out, thick and white, where all the grease that’s evaporated, goes, where it all pulls from the cells, deprived. “Just a sec,” I realize, is not long enough for anything to collect, while all along, I’ve just denied even a touch, even “just a sec,” even “a moment on the lips. . .” At least she savors.

“Thanks for waiting,” she says.

The urge I had earlier—to tell her I’m sick of waiting—disappears, and I give up my carry-on.