Three Meals a Day
By Allison Whittenberg
Beneath the thick fabric of his wool sweater, Elias’s shoulders jutted out like accusations, sharp, impossible to ignore, As he waited outside the cafe, he occupied himself studying the menu posted in the window.
Lara arrived five minutes late, cheeks flushed from the cool September air. She wore a dark green sweater and jeans, her hair pulled back loosely. When she smiled, Elias felt it in his ribs.
“You’ve been waiting long?” she asked.
“No, not at all.” He pushed the door open for her, grateful for something to do with his hands.
Inside, the restaurant was warm and dimly lit, the kind of place with wine glasses already set on the table. Elias slid into his seat carefully, posture stiff. A marionette afraid of tangling its strings.
Lara glanced at the menu. “Everything looks so good. I’m starving.”
Elias nodded though he didn’t understand the concept. What was this thing, starving? The word clanged like an alarm bell. At that moment, he didn't feel very hungry, ever. “His nutritionist said three meals a day. That was a reason number for an average man. But most mornings he just had a bagel, like today, and by afternoon the hunger was gone, buried under work deadlines and jitters. He wanted to gain weight and get to a safe, normal number. Last spring, at his worst, he’d been a dizzy, brittle 110.
He ordered grilled chicken and brown simple rice. Still it was prepared by someone else, which still felt foreign to him. Months ago, he would have refused to eat anything that he hadn’t made himself.
“So,” Lara said once they’d ordered. “You said you like the beach.”
“I like swimming,” Elias said. A lie, mostly. Not the water he loved that but the moment before, when he had to peel off his shirt and pretend he didn’t care who was looking. But during the summer he learned to do it anyway, learned to keep his face expressionless, while his mind shouted that everyone was staring at his narrow, ugly shoulders.
“Oh, that’s what you said on Match, “ she said, still with an easy expression. There was a softness to her, a lived-in kind of openness.
Elias’s throat tightened. “I like the water after I go in.”
She nodded. “That makes sense.”
“What else do you like?” she asked, leaning forward slightly.
“I don’t know. I forget what I wrote.”
She giggled.
So, did he, for once without overthinking it.
The server arrived with their meals, and for a moment there was only the clink of plates.
Elias stared at his food.
He didn’t know how much oil they’d used, whether the rice was portioned correctly but he picked up his fork anyway.
Lara was talking about her family and said she was in a graduate program but she dropped out and went back to her old job at an animal hospital where she was a receptionist, which she really liked. “It’s nice, not thinking about it all the time.”
Elias listened, nodding. He was terrified she’d notice how small his shoulders looked under this big fisherman's sweater.
He lifted a piece of grilled chicken to his mouth. He chewed.
Every bite felt both salvation and punishment
As the night went on, Elias felt a frantic current running beneath every laugh and every glance, a buzz he couldn’t quiet. Addiction weaved like a loom through his family. Yes, there was alcohol. Yes, there were pills. Yes, there was gambling, legal and street. He knew this thing he carried, this relentless anxiety, was just another form of it. He didn’t smoke or drink. Money didn’t burn up in his hands, but food and the constant monitoring of it was his weakness. Trying to be normal, sitting across from Lara, he realized he was scared of not so much losing her before had the chance to know her but once again losing himself.
They stepped into the cool dark air, Elias hesitated, then asked, “Can I walk you home?” His voice came out small, almost fragile.
Lara nodded, saying he was sweet to ask.
As they walked side by side through the quiet streets, he noticed her shape clearly for the first time. She had what was known as the classic, hourglass figure. Her sweater hugging the indent of her waist before curving out over her hips. There was a small, natural cushion of protective softness low on her belly, right where her womb was, a quiet curve that felt tender and human, grounding her in a way Elias couldn’t name. This protuberance startled him. It stirred something in him and reminded him of trust. Something real and root, something about life. His heart thundered as he caught himself staring and quickly looked away.
When they reached her apartment building, they lingered at the entrance, the quiet of the street wrapping around them.
“Thanks for walking me home.”
“Of course, Lara, of course.”
For a moment, they just stood there, close enough that he could feel the faint heat radiating from her body. Then Lara leaned in, and their lips met. There was a deepness in her eyes that made his chest ache. Their kiss was gentle at first, tentative as a question with a mix of fear and longing. He was always hyper-aware of how small his shoulders were, how little space he took up compared to other men, but in that moment, with Lara’s mouth on his, the white noise in his head was silent.
The kiss had a life of its own, deepening. Her hands slid down along his sides and, without hesitation, explored. Playfully, she let her palm brush the back of his jeans, her fingers curving around the slight swell of his ass. She gave it a quick, affectionate squeeze, as a smile broke against his lips.
Like he was something solid, desirable.
Her touch overrode his instinct to retreat.
For once, he didn’t vanish into self-consciousness.
He leaned into her warmth and breathed.
THE END
Author Bio: Allison Whittenberg is an award winning novelist and playwright. Her poetry has appeared in Columbia Review, Feminist Studies, J Journal, and New Orleans Review. Whittenberg is a ten-time Pushcart Prize nominee. “They Were Horrible Cooks” is her collection of poetry. Her plays have been performed at Interact Theatre, Downtown Urban Arts Fest, Hedgerow Theatre, and many others.