Friday, April 22

Toby and I, making love. Soft breath and damp hair and my nose pressed against his throat to feel his voice. His hands on my hips. Me, drowning, separated from reality, my growling stomach, my aching head, the burn of tired muscle.

He pulls away, looks at me with sober eyes. "How much have you lost?" he asks. The sudden loss of his touch pulls me back long enough to say, I'm not. I'm not losing.

His hands again, skimming the instrument of my ribs under fat and pale skin, touching the point of hipbones beginning to reemerge, touching my lips. "I'd guess about five pounds," he says.

I stare back at him, silent.

After a moment he breaks my gaze and leaves the bedroom.

I can't stop shaking and I tell myself it's from the sex, but there are no excuses this morning, twelve hours later, when I miss the doorknob by a mile.