Ice

I spent a pleasant morning, energy singing through and around me. I was a vibrating wire stretched taut, working on three interesting projects, flirting via email, and conducting assorted office interactions, all on no sleep, plenty of modafinil, and a growing conviction that I can sail through the roughest of waters without letting on that it's an effort.

Because he's been invisible, you see. But then I saw his name. He must have logged on somewhere, because up came the little notification on my screen -- "Rick is online."

Oh. Well, never mind, I'll just . . . should I send him a message? No. The last words I said to him were the words I want to end with. I was sweet, and I promised that I still love him. And I do -- I wouldn't make an empty promise. Not about that.

No point in tempting myself. If he wanted to talk, he could reach me easily enough. Best to close IM altogether, and so I did. And that's when I should have eaten something, because I couldn't eat last night, but first I wanted to log into webmail and see if he might have sent a letter. Not because I was expecting one -- just to cross it off the list, so it wouldn't be a distraction while I worked. No, he hadn't, good, didn't think he would, but what was it he said in July while I was in Australia? It's here somewhere. . . . but no, before that even, when we were still so feverish, so elevated by each other, so sure.

Oh, look at this one. Jesus christ almighty, why did he say things like that? Why would you say things like that to a woman and then let her go? No one's ever written to me like that. Surely no one will again. And if they did, why would I trust them? Look at how it turned out with you, my own. So many letters you wrote . . . who would believe someone could write that much about love and never say the same thing twice?

Oh, baby boy. You can't say things like that and then not fight to make it work.

A wave of nausea at three p.m. drags me out of this torturous reverie, and I know I have to eat something. I stand arms akimbo in front of the microwave while my plate spins inside. People greet me as they walk by. A co-worker calls me vivacious, of all things. They have no idea, because I am a ship, I am in full sail, no one can tell that the smell of reheating food is so revolting it threatens to bring tears to my eyes. I don't want to eat. While I wait I chew on some crushed ice to relieve the gnawing in my stomach. I feel the bits of ice slide all the way down, down my throat, down my esophagus, I feel them land like pebbles and melt in my stomach, leaving cold spots deep inside. Oh yes, cold feels so much better. I carry my plate to my desk and choke down a few bites, but it's just too much, and I throw most of the food away. I miss the comforting spots of cold. So discrete. So tangible. I'll wait until I'm hollow again and swallow some ice. I'll freeze myself from the inside out.