My Anorexic Heart

Chapter 2 - Sebastian & Edward

February 27

Dear meaningless piece of tightly bound paper,

It's Wednesday. I have two days until I see Sky. I have an appointment with Betty again today, and I still haven't called Terry. I can't bring myself to pick up the phone. I don't deserve forgiveness. How can anyone ever trust me again after what I did? 

Caesar showed up at my job yesterday. My boss had to call the cops to drag him away. The officers suggested I file a restraining order. Despite the hate I feel for him, I can't. It's stupid. If this was happening to someone else, I would think she was a complete idiot.

Caesar can hurt me, he has in the past, but I'm not scared. Maybe I want him to hurt me, really hurt me. Death seems so more peaceful than life. I won't have to worry about being fat in death.           

"Paper order." A box of paper drops at my side interrupting my sullen memories.

I look up to see a sly, dimpled grin and golden curls lighted by buttery streams of sunlight pushing through the long, front windows—Sebastian. 

"Writing again?" He cranes his neck over my shoulder to get a better look my inked thoughts.

I slam it shut. "Personal."

"Writing about me?" He bends over and pulls the blue, cardboard top off the paper box--the color is not a beautiful as his eyes.

"You know they pay me to do that, right?" I purposely ignore his question as I watch him stack my paper order on the shelf behind me.      

"They pay me to provide office supplies, so I'm providing."

"You're paid to sell us supplies, not manage them for us."

He shrugs. "Increasing sales is all about good customer service." He glances over at the desk where my fingers lay protectively across the brown leather cover of my notebook. "Are you paid to journal all day?"

I scowl at his retort. "They pay me to man the desk and look pleasant. I'm manning." I indicate my position at the desk. "And looking pleasant," I feign a lame smile. "Is it my fault they don't have any customers during my shift?"

"Guess not."

"Then I have every right to keep my sanity by not sitting idle all day." Betty taught me that a busy mind is a happy mind. Keeping busy helps keep me from wanting to cut my thighs off or jump off a building. I'm not exactly happy, but I am less suicidal.

He gets up and brushes off his black dress pants. "You owe me a date."

"For what?" The change of subject jolts me.

"Doing your job."

"No one asked you to."

He holds my gaze for too long. I have to turn away from his blazing blue eyes before I drown in them.

"I don't date."  I say, fiddling with my pen.

"You don't date," he scoffs as if he is ignorant of voluntary celebacy. "Why?"

I look up at him in disbelief. "You were here yesterday."

"He hurt you." His golden lashes glow like halos around his aquamarie irises.

"It's over. I just need ... space." I am not ready to date, but I don't want him to leave me alone. He talks to me – really talks to me – not like he is speaking with a patient or an ailing friend. I can't lose him, but dating doesn't sound appealing. I associate romance with headaches.