So what will it be?
the nutritionist asks, cutting right to the chase. It is Saturday morning. We are both in her office, I on the edge of the plump red chair.
She looks less than thrilled to be in my company. I understand; it is her day off. I try to set aside the antipathy I have been cultivating for her for weeks.
I will be civil.
An Italian restaurant,
I say and, as an afterthought,
Please.
And what will you order there?
she asks.
A pizza margherita,
says the girl I once was, before I have time to stop her.
Two full slices, at least,
comes her verdict,
and the house salad with dressing as well.
Her eyes are on the clock. I keep mine on the prize. This painful meeting is adjourned.