Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS writer.
‘This is total bullshit.’
The waitress flinches, apologises.
‘It’s just house policy that you can’t smoke anywhere near the food preparation area … ’
Lisa snaps her silver lighter shut and stubs her cigarette out on the potted shrub beside us.
‘It’s fine,’ she says, eyes narrow. ‘I understand completely.’
The waitress melts away and Lisa turns those cold, direct eyes onto me.
‘So what are you doing with your life now, anyway?’
‘I … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Well … ’
‘For fuck’s sake, Laura, just spit it out. You must be doing something by now, you’re nearly thirty.’
I fiddle with a stray sugar packet, trying to focus on the menu in front of me. The waitress rematerializes and Lisa orders another skinny latte.
‘I don’t have time to eat lunch today,’ she says, ‘But you should go ahead and order something anyway.’
I order the chickpea salad from the specials board and she glances over my body with her lips pressed together.
‘You’re not pulling your anorexic shit again, are you? You’re very skinny, you know. I can see it in your hands.’
‘No, I’m not – ’
‘Well, good. Because mum and dad don’t need to worry about you any more about you than they already do.’ Her own ribcage strains through her tight singlet top and I am suffused with the same old sense of injustice that I remember from childhood. Lisa folds her arms across her chest and unconsciously I shuffle forward to the edge of my chair.
‘So what are you doing for work?’
‘I’m still doing the blogging for that fashion company.’
‘That discount warehouse place?’ She wrinkles her nose. ‘Does it pay decently, at least?’
I shake my head miserably and feel my mouth flinch to one side. The waitress plonks a plate of salad down before me and I shovel some onto a fork. Eating it is like putting a fist in my mouth; impossible to enjoy.
Lisa watches me with irritation, rummaging through her soft leather handbag to check the time on her iPhone.
‘Look, if you’re not going to talk, Laura, I don’t even know why you wanted to meet up.’
I say nothing. I want to, I try to, but I have a dull twisted ache at the back of my throat and I can’t move my tongue.
Lisa shakes her head and gathers up her cigarettes and lighter. Before she goes, she chucks twenty dollars on the table.
‘That should cover your food as well. Don’t say I never give you anything.’