This coffee shop has private stalls—thank god. This bathroom trip is different, it’s rushed, hurried, and desperate. I twist the knob of the faucet to create background noise and shove my fingers down my throat and watch almonds and coffee with cream fly into the toilet.  I shove my finger down my throat again.  I shove my finger down my throat again. I shove my finger down my throat again until my knuckle catches one of my teeth and splits open and starts to bleed. Tears are pouring out of my eyes, and my legs are shaking, and I can feel my heart pulsing, pushing to make my body expand and continue while I force it to try to shrink and disappear. I’m lightheaded and my vision is fading and I fall, collapsing my body onto the floor and stare at the ceiling. If this is what death feels like, my only wish is that it had come sooner.

 

There’s a knock on the door, so I pull myself up, wash my hand, and leave the coffee shop.