These Demons

Chapter Three

Back in the car, I desperately try to dissuade Zoe from her dinner plan by using the snacks at the studio as an excuse, but she's not nearly as persuadable as I thought she'd be and is determined to go to a crappy diner. I'm not sure whether that makes this whole eating thing better or worse because on one side, it's not as awkward to just drink something at a diner as it is at a restaurant, but on the other side, diners only offer extremely high-caloric unhealthy foods that scare the hell out of me.
Either way, I start to panic and need to dig my nails into my flesh to keep myself from freaking out like an insane person.
Zoe keeps talking and talking and I wish I could just slap her to make her shut up, but of course I don't and stay quiet instead, nodding and rolling my eyes from time to time, until she pulls over and I wish I had a heart attack right here and right now.

"Are you okay?" she wants to know, bending over to touch my hand, but I immediately pull away because I refuse to let anyone touch me.
She scoots back, sighs and gets out of the car while I consider staying for a moment, but since I can't do that without appearing suspicious, I unwillingly climb out too and slam it shut.
Standing a few feet away from the entrance, I stare at the people sitting behind the high windows as they stuff themselves with unimaginable things and try to not look too horrified, but Zoe seems to notice. Considering how I behave, probably everyone would.

"Sure you're okay?" she reassures herself and I nod hastily, somehow managing to move forward and get my feet to step through the door and inside.
Different kinds of nasty smells hit my nose and I feel sick and don't want to do anything except run away and never return to escape this hell, but Zoe marches to the waiter with so much enthusiasm that I definitely can't do that and continue to follow her to the table the waiter points to instead.

It almost makes me snicker that she actually asks him for a table because there are only a few other people in here and most of the spots are free, but this place is too horrendous to make any form of laughing possible.
I swallow the lump in my throat and fail an attempt to smile at her when we sit down at a booth in the back. At least it's far away from the window, shielded from the others to keep them from watching me, and we have cushioned benches here instead of the hard chairs, which is a faint silver lining on the horizon.

"What do you want?" She flips through the menu without looking at me, but I still feel like shaking because of the question. It's a reasonable one, yet I'm completely unprepared for it. "I don't know yet," I lie, certain that I won't eat.
My stomach growls and I try my hardest to convince myself it's applauding. No chance in hell I'll eat here.

"How about pancakes?"
"Isn't that more like a breakfast thing?" I talk my way out, and surprisingly, it even works. "Yeah, you're probably right," she agrees and continues to study the pages in front of her. "Then I guess waffles are too."
I don't react and rub my sweaty palms instead. "But sandwiches aren't and neither are mac and cheese. What do you prefer?"
"Neither," I say firmly and she frowns. "Okay..." It takes her a few seconds to process that. "I'm sure you like at least bagels or burgers."

"Look." I force myself to stop my legs from trembling and keep my nervousness to myself instead. "We really don't have to order anything together."
"But don't you want to eat something? I mean, you're not actually going to sit here eating nothing." Her doubtful look says it all, but that's actually exactly what I had planned.
"I don't feel too well and ate something at the studio."
The usual lies. After a while, they fall from your lips so easily that you don't even have to spend time thinking about them.
"What's wrong?" The problem is just that some people can't ever stop digging. All that faked worry is awful to witness.

"Just... A little... Nauseated," I settle on a word, putting all of my energy into appearing as calm as humanly possible while feeling like I'm in the middle of a battlefield and there are mines everywhere around me.
"Nauseated," she repeats sighing and flips the menu shut. "Not even a salad?"
With all that dressing that pretty much only consists of mayonnaise- and that pretty much only consists of fat I can't consume without gaining weight like crazy. Not gonna happen.

A waiter passes by and I raise my hand so she notices me, and she comes over to take our orders. This way, I can at least keep Zoe from asking any more extremely inconvenient questions. "A small pot of plain black coffee, please," I politely tell the (to my disfavor also skinny) lady.
Two strikes with one punch: I'm a nice and normal person and get my metabolism going to lose more weight. Besides, I love coffee and it keeps me from eating.
There are so many tricks to avoid food and if I didn't hate being here so much, I would almost enjoy finding my little escape routes out of everything. It's almost like I'm outsmarting the food that wants to make me fat. Is it crazy of me to think this kind of stuff?

Zoe stares at me in disbelief and it makes me feel insecure, but I don't let her notice. "French toast, please," she says, still fixated on me.
She actually has really pretty eyes, bright and sparkly with those light spots, but I don't care about that. Fawning over some girl would only distract me from what I need to focus on, and that's my weight.
Getting back to the old self I could be happy with is the only thing that matters, because this way I know I'll never be satisfied with my life.
"And some cottage cheese and soda." The lady nods, shoots both of us uncertain glances and then leaves with a shrug. What the hell? I'm being reasonable here. Unlike some others.

"What?" I ask, crossing my arms in front of my chest. "I told you I'm not feeling too well."
"You're strange," she notes.
"But you're not? It's like the middle of the night and you're ordering french toast," I remind her and she chuckles, which is cuter than I wish it were.
"At least I'm eating. You're super skinny already."
That comment deeply confuses me. Why would she say that? Is this her way of tricking me into gaining weight? Why does she do that? What on earth is she thinking? Or is this a faux compliment? But wouldn't that make even less sense? My head spins from so much nonsense and I remember why I prefer staying at home with the cats and my loneliness to spending my time with other humans.

"I'm not," I mumble, fumbling with my usual biker leather gloves that cover my hands to the point where the scars from my slip-ups end so I only need to show the normal, chubby parts of my fingers to the world.
"Yeah, right." She sounds so sarcastic that my self-doubts and uncertainty go through the roof because I do not have a clue how to interpret this tone since I'm obviously right.

"You're not one of those weirdos who only eat shit like low carb rice made from cauliflower and raw desserts with pitted dates, are you?" she wants to know and I don't want to, but just have to laugh at that question.
I wish I were. Those people have discipline, unlike me.
"No, I'm not," I tell her, "I just don't feel like eating right now."
"Right." She rolls her eyes and I stay quiet until her food and my coffee arrive.
My eyes widen at the sight of her plate and I hold on tightly to my cup, but not even the heat seems to be able to warm my cold sweaty fingers. The taste of the cheap coffee calms me and my body down a little and the smell can slightly distract me from the aching hunger inside my stomach, but when I watch Zoe stuff her face with all that greasy stuff she ordered, I feel dizzy and shaky.

"Want a bite?" she offers, but I hastily shake my head.
"It's really good."
My hands desperately clamp the mug.
"I have siblings. Sharing is absolutely no problem."
The boiling liquid burns my irritated throat.
"You don't have to, though. I'm just offering."
If the caffeine doesn't kick in soon, I'll collapse.
"Whatever." She continues to eat and I continue to watch her from the corner of my eyes.

What does it taste like? Does she enjoy it or does she just pretend to? Does she always eat such unhealthy stuff? Will she really eat all of it? Would she really share with me?
The questions run wild in my overcharged head, but I keep my mouth shut because I'm petrified.
In the meantime, Zoe enjoys her late meal and doesn't seem to notice me losing my mind.
A part of me wishes I could be a little more like her.