“Are you okay?” Caz snapped. “No offense, Al, but in two years I don’t want to be desperately grabbing at everything and everyone that might help me forget about my fucking ex.” For the first time all morning, Caz raised her eyes to Ally’s and she held contact. It felt cruel.
“Hey” Ally hissed, like she was a balloon that had been stabbed. “That’s not nice."
“Yo, Ally, I’m sorry.” Caz didn’t wait to comfort her. She just headed back down the hall.
***
Ally splurged on a Lyft to work. Frankly, she felt too beautiful to take the bus today. Too precious. After all, hadn’t Hugo handled her like something rare, his hands firm but supportive, like he was carrying a bunch of tulips.
Toward the end of their relationship, Matthew had stopped touching Ally. He no longer wrapped his arms around her at night while she snored lightly, or kissed her on the forehead while she was writing. (To be fair, she no longer wrote.) He no longer rested his palm on the rise of her ass as she read, lying with her stomach over his knees on the couch. He no longer swatted her when she teased him, or wiped crumbs off her lips, or reached for her in the car to squeeze the back of her neck as they drove. The only contact they had was the dutiful peck he gave her before he headed to work, such an anomaly that it felt cruel, like a reminder of what she no longer had.
She had become sure, after a period of rage and questioning, that the problem was her. He had never said as much, but what else could it be? It was her body, of course, but more than that it was her essence — the essence of too much. She ate too much, laughed too loud, came too hard, loved too deeply. If she could just retract her presence so that it was barely felt, then perhaps he would start reaching for her, start missing the space she once filled. She started by talking less: At first it was hard and then, after a little while, it became second nature. In fact, she no longer had anything she wanted to say. Then, she stopped eating. Correction: she ate just enough to stay alive — a few olives here, an orange there, the occasional piece of toast, making sure to avoid any crumbs that he might notice. She wanted to be impossible to detect.
She was just remembering the hardest part —teaching herself not to look at him —when she arrived at work. She felt the electric thrill of being a teenager about to enter the concert of a pop band that they felt especially close to. She fluffed her hair, ran her tongue over her teeth and flung the door open, strutting down the hall toward her office.
She rounded the corner coolly, head bowed but a smile on her lips, ready for Hugo, Wayfarers still on, coffee in hand and feet up. But she was the first one there. So she went and prepared herself a cup of tea, and then she waited.
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March 30, 2020 at 08:03PM
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Lena Dunham's "Verified Strangers," Chapter Six: The Essence of Too Much - Vogue
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