Sniff

A sniff of free food and everyone crawls from the under their
stones. The nibbles table has been dismantled piece by piece until only
flakes of pastry and white lettuce curls are left. Bob discusses his
record collection with a man Silvia does not recognise. The man holds a
plate six times his own weight. As Bob exhibits each album, the man
throws another sausage roll down his throat as if they were tequila
shots. He nods furiously at everything Bob says and, when he speaks,
crumbs and spit spay over the yellowing covers. She can see Bob
furtively wiping his sleeve over each one before returning it to the
shelf. Sometimes, when she dusts, Silvia swaps a few records around, to
see if he notices. He always does. She hears him tutting to himself as
he carefully repositions them, but he never says anything about it to
her. He must think his memory is going.

'So you had him back then,' Miriam whispers, her sudden closeness makes
Silvia's heart race. 'With a figure like yours you could have any man
in this room.'
'He's my husband

'Wonderful do,' Miriam yaps in Silvia's ear. 'So pleased to see you two
back together.' Miriam is irritating but her lolloping adoration is
addictive. If only i. 'Most women wouldn't touch a man after what he
did. You must have the heart of an angel.' She slips an arm round
Silvia's waist. 'And with your figure, you could have any man you
wanted.' She pinches Silvia were love handles should be and, when she
can't find any, skates around the hollow. 'Amazing. Not a scrap of fat
on you. You must tell me your secret diet.' She extends her fingers
across Silvia's stomach until there's no escape. 'Please,' she says,
eyes are big and watery.
Silvia doesn't have anything to say. Her body refuses notice whatever
she eats. She could tell Miriam about the hour she spent in the
bathroom earlier, walking between the scales and the mirror, eating
chocolate and waiting for the needle to move. Whatever she consumes,
her body burns. She is sick. The fires fuel the war raging inside, the
last shreds of her white army overrun by an unnamed aggressor. The
disease causes doctors to mutter in huddles at the end of hospital beds
and nurses to sample her blood with trembling hands. It causes tests
without results. Most of all it forces her to fight, to turn all her
fight inwards and leaves her with precious little fight for the world
outside.
'Tabasco,' she tells Miriam, 'A teaspoon of Tabasco before each meal,
and two in the morning.'
'Oh thank you, thank you!' Miriam's

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