Beyonce

After work on a Friday, the pub is a hive. Around us, other office types dressed in uniform dark suits and clothes look the same: half-drunk, very drunk, stinking drunk.
I sip at my wine.

We’re catching up with Stefan’s old work mates. This means seeing Elena. She has license to stare at him, being his ex, I suppose, and because she’s pretty
(and slim)
and I’m the upgrade, so I glare back, lighthouse light-style, quickly but oh so brightly. I down the glass of house red. Stefan slips a hand over my thigh. When he thinks I’m not looking, his eyes flick over Elena’s body like a tongue. He smiles, embarrassed, when he realises I see him.

“Hungry?” he asks, distractedly.

I’m not, but I say Yes, to see him smile the smile he saves for me
(and Elena)
and decide I don’t care that she’s here, or that she looks good. I reassure myself I look just as hip as she does, clothes new and slightly over budget, from Monsoon, so better, maybe. And in doing so feel remarkably ordinary.

I’m drinking faster than the others. The pub grows darker and hazier. Televisions come to life, covering us in music video sunlight. Beyonce appears, sleek and brown and perfection. I’m her age.
I look nothing like that.
Somewhere, behind the doubts and the wine and the jealousy, I know she doesn’t really look that way either.

Stefan is now looking at Beyonce’s body.

The conversation becomes hospital waiting room chatter. Stefan is the coffee table covered in glossy magazines and everyone is having a read through. The alcohol is making Elena prettier, even to me.

Food. I shovel it down without tasting any of it and think about what loving Stefan actually means.

More wine. The remains on my plate are few.

Beyonce dances, smooth and slim and succulent. She’s hypnotising. So is Elena.
Her eyes never leave Stefan’s face. Her food is untouched.

I dash to the toilet.

Looking into the bowl feels like looking into two gaping choices. Should I. Shouldn’t I. My stomach churns. My head is a table tennis match in double time. Without thinking, two fingers hang-glide into my mouth. They caress the sides of my throat, pushing lower, lower, until it feels like they’re touching the top of my gut. Laughter rattles through the floorboards from upstairs.
This is sort of funny.
My body lurches forward in protest, as if I’m about to sprint. I retch again and bang my knee against the bowl. Ow. Ha ha. I burp cartoon loud and laugh harder. My stomach screams. The food flows out of me like lava. The wine burns my throat turning my taste buds into acid. For a split second it hits me what I’m doing.

A knock on the door?

My head is spinning. Stefan? I picture him outside, tall, dark and strong like an Armani ad.

I wrench open the door to find a woman swaying from side to side. She looks like she’s been sick.

I push past her and stagger to the sinks. In the mirror, my reflection is a smeared chocolate smudge. If I squint, I’m sure I’m the same size and colour as Beyonce. Ha ha.
Shame tastes like partially digested burger and chips.

I clean myself up.

Stefan is waiting for me by the main toilet door. He hands me a bottle of still water.
Outside, the night sky looks mixed in with blue bleach. Air trickles up my nose, hits the back of my throat and tastes like liquorice. I feel small shards of clarity stab at my brain.

“You were gone for a bit,” he laughs. “I figured you’d drunk too much, again.”
He smiles at me. My smile.
I see it now. It’s forced.

Softly, music tiptoes outside to us. It’s not a Beyonce track. It’s something I don’t know.