“Yeah, but I’m encouraging. Not judging,” I say, dipping mine into the strawberry. “I’ll turn my back, if it helps.” I take the bite and moan with exaggerated delight.
“Not necessary,” she tells me, looking a little lighter, but still with worry around the corners of her mouth. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“You dip the spoon in,” I say. “No pressure, though. I can make you a real meal. Something healthy.”
Lou runs the spoon over the top of the toffee nut, slowly filling the spoon with smooth cream.
“Healthy would be deciding to do something because I want it. Not because someone else doesn’t want me to have it.”
She takes the ice cream up to her mouth, her tongue darting out to drag along the side of stainless steel before she takes it all in. It shouldn’t be sexy; she’s not trying to be. Yet, it is. She is. Because even in the middle of battling through turmoil, she’s choosing to face this one personal demon.
I’m oddly proud of her, this stranger who shifts my point of view.
“Is it good?”
“It’s fucking delicious.” She grins. Genuinely.
I wonder when the last time was she did that.
“Want more?”
“Fuck yes.”
I push both pints toward her, letting her alternate between the two. Fresh baked cookies can be my dinner. They’re soft. The perfect combination of oatmeal and chocolate.
“These are delicious,” I tell her, grabbing a second one.
“Thanks,” she says around another spoonful.
“Want one?”
“No.” She shakes her head, that lingering fear she tends to carry creeping onto her features. “It’s something to keep me busy. I don’t eat them.”
Lou stills at her own words, sets her spoon down, and stares at the pints. Each one now misses about a quarter of its contents. A shiver runs up her spine, so intense that her shudder is visible.
“I need to go,” she says abruptly.
“Lou.”
“I’m sorry. Th-thank you.” She manages to get the words out before she’s out the front door in a rush.
Five
Lou
“Life is a daring adventure or nothing.”
Helen Keller
Iwake in a pool of sweat. Sticky and sickly. I’m not ill. Not with a virus, anyhow. I’ve had panic attacks before. The first time, I didn’t know what was happening to me.
Pierre told me it was karma. My body punishing me for disobeying him. A sentence for the crime of not wearing the dress he’d told me to.
At work, I was a doll for the designer. The mannequin used to sell their clothes to the wealthy masses. The people more concerned with brand names than real fashion. They’d recognize a designer’s style before they’d recognize my face passing them on the street. But that meant I was doing a good job. It was never about me; it was about making the garment stand out.
Shine. Sell. Sell. Sell.
At home, I was Pierre’s doll. Do this. Don’t do that. Wear this, keep your hair down, that’s too much makeup, your hem isn’t short enough. I was to be an extension of him. A possession. Something to be desired. Something for other men to be jealous of him for. I had to be wanted so he could say, “She’s mine.” Sell. Sell. Sell.
