‹ Prequel: Ana
Sequel: Relearning Laura ›
The "You're Not Fat" Campaign
Impossibly Small Sixteenths
I stare at the menu.
Aldo approaches.
He steps up to our table and Rick orders his food.
"And for mia bella ragazza?" Aldo says, his deep voice booming off of the walls of the small restaurant. I can feel my hands shaking. I hide them under the table and dig my fingernails into my wrist.
"Do you need more time, Lo?" Rick asks. I stare at him, silently pleading. He stares back, his eyes blue and innocent.
"No... I... Can I just...." I trail off. My nails are sunk deep into my flesh. Rick sighs.
"She'll have the cheese ravioli, please, Aldo."
Cheese ravioli?
Is Rick kidding?
"And we'll have a basket of bread too, please. With olive oil." Rick smiles charmingly. Aldo nods and waddles back to the kitchen. I stare at the tabletop. Sofia places the bread basket on the table. Rick grabs a hunk of bread and drizzles olive oil onto it, then hands it to me. I stare at it.
"Laura, are you okay?" he asks. I nod. The bread is is warm and soft in my hands, with a crunchy crust. It smells divine.
140 calories in one slice of bread, Laura, that voice whispers. 120 calories in one serving of olive oil.
I rip the bread into small pieces - in half, then in fourths, then in eighths, then in impossibly small sixteenths - and place one of the pieces in my mouth. The taste of olive oil explodes across my taste buds and my eyes close involuntarily. This is the first thing I've eaten since breakfast yesterday. This is amazing.
You better puke this shit up later, fatass.
I chew slowly, thirty chews before swallowing. I make sure that each tiny bite is ground completely into a paste before moving onto the next one. By the time the food arrives, I am already feeling full. My ears are ringing.
Go to the bathroom. Vomit. Puke it all up, Laura. If you don't go now it'll be too late. Puke. Puke. PUKE.
Aldo sets my plate of ravioli in front of me.
"With the sauce on the side like the bella ragazza has always liked," he says, chuckling. He winks at Rick and strolls away. Rick dives into his pasta marinara and I stare at the ravioli.
260 calories. 260 calories. 260 calories. 260. 260. 260.
I pick up my fork and pick at one of the steaming pockets of dough. I cut it in half, then into fourths, then into eighths, then into impossibly small sixteenths.
Aldo approaches.
He steps up to our table and Rick orders his food.
"And for mia bella ragazza?" Aldo says, his deep voice booming off of the walls of the small restaurant. I can feel my hands shaking. I hide them under the table and dig my fingernails into my wrist.
"Do you need more time, Lo?" Rick asks. I stare at him, silently pleading. He stares back, his eyes blue and innocent.
"No... I... Can I just...." I trail off. My nails are sunk deep into my flesh. Rick sighs.
"She'll have the cheese ravioli, please, Aldo."
Cheese ravioli?
Is Rick kidding?
"And we'll have a basket of bread too, please. With olive oil." Rick smiles charmingly. Aldo nods and waddles back to the kitchen. I stare at the tabletop. Sofia places the bread basket on the table. Rick grabs a hunk of bread and drizzles olive oil onto it, then hands it to me. I stare at it.
"Laura, are you okay?" he asks. I nod. The bread is is warm and soft in my hands, with a crunchy crust. It smells divine.
140 calories in one slice of bread, Laura, that voice whispers. 120 calories in one serving of olive oil.
I rip the bread into small pieces - in half, then in fourths, then in eighths, then in impossibly small sixteenths - and place one of the pieces in my mouth. The taste of olive oil explodes across my taste buds and my eyes close involuntarily. This is the first thing I've eaten since breakfast yesterday. This is amazing.
You better puke this shit up later, fatass.
I chew slowly, thirty chews before swallowing. I make sure that each tiny bite is ground completely into a paste before moving onto the next one. By the time the food arrives, I am already feeling full. My ears are ringing.
Go to the bathroom. Vomit. Puke it all up, Laura. If you don't go now it'll be too late. Puke. Puke. PUKE.
Aldo sets my plate of ravioli in front of me.
"With the sauce on the side like the bella ragazza has always liked," he says, chuckling. He winks at Rick and strolls away. Rick dives into his pasta marinara and I stare at the ravioli.
260 calories. 260 calories. 260 calories. 260. 260. 260.
I pick up my fork and pick at one of the steaming pockets of dough. I cut it in half, then into fourths, then into eighths, then into impossibly small sixteenths.