Crave

After determining that I had starved myself to invisibility, I left the bathroom, knocking down two margarita-soaked women. They shrieked in columns of tiny, boozy bubbles. Horrified beyond speech, they watched my empty pants step over them. I felt weak and exhilarated.

The others were gathered around our table. Dora, pale as salt, spat oyster crackers into a napkin. All I could see of Rob was his right arm with its IV nutrient drip. I spread my empty sleeves wide.

Rob's arm trembled. "Jim...."

Dora rose. Her enormous belly bumped my hollow one. "Do it," she whispered. Her eyes were closed. I ran my unseeable hand over her face, through her hair, imagining that I was the wind itself. Delicate white strands snapped between my fingers and floated gently to the ground.

I shed my clothing and upended a heavy table of carrots and beets. Earthy vegans scattered like leaves. A kale-eater cowered. I threw a bowl of cherries at him as a woman flailed blindly with tofu-soft fists. That's when the police showed up. They had infrared goggles and dogs. My lawyer says we may be able to use that in court. Whatever.

When I was a kid, Mom would drown me in orange juice. The blinding, concentrated nausea would light me up with need for her. My skin bubbled with something that hurt in a way that I loved. What a sweet boy, her friends said. Very bright. Then I would go to my mother and give her a sticky kiss.