Blue

Four months since I’d seen her, and she beat me to the restaurant; waiting in a sparkling black, sleeveless blouse, her hair now back to its natural brown after a summer of experimenting as a blonde – in truth it never suited her, though it was a natural fit for her cerulean eyes. 

She orders a twelve ounce ribeye, rare with garlic and red wine reduction and sets upon like it was her first real meal in weeks – and true, once you looked past her muscular shoulders, she was noticeably thin – not emaciated, but hungry, her knife expertly disassembling her meal, fork stirring each bite around in its own juices and the opulent sauce pooled around it, finishing up with a sip of her cabernet. I watched her mouth, ravenous, I realized later, as she’d even been -- the blood red of each bite, her white teeth smiling whenever her gaze caught mine, but never pausing from the task before her.

Later, as she sleeps, deep and sated from her first truly decent meal in who knows how long, I gather her toward me, feel the outline of her ribs as she settles back against me with hardly a stir. 

In truth it’s hard to see her like this, though I know this is her journey now and she must be fully the author of it – that she lets me share moments with her along the way is both humbling and gratifying – it’s a high wire act she’s chosen, and her footing nearly fails her at times, yet this only compels her to redouble her efforts.

Somewhere, she dreams of knives and fired flesh, crushed potatoes and wild herbs, and butter -- curls up a little tighter in her carnivorous oblivion and draws a single breath, finally at least momentarily satisfied.