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Elliot sat beside me, putting down his own plate before settling a napkin on my lap.
Sitting back in his chair, he watched me. “Something wrong?” He tilted his head to the plate.
My fingers toyed with the napkin, suddenly uncomfortable by the question and the honest answer that I was unable to not give him.
“I don’t eat bread,” I told him.
He tilted his head to regard me. “You’re not allergic, or you would’ve told me.”
“No, I’m not allergic,” I agreed. “Just a militant control freak who needs to ensure my weight stays at a magic number that is maintained with protein, vegetables and martinis.” I felt my cheeks flush with shame.
I’d never felt embarrassed when I’d declared my dietary restrictions to my family. Mostly because I’d said it with a false bravado even I’d convinced myself with. It wasn’t a problem, nothing to be dissected closer or sheepish about. I liked controlling what I put in my body, fueling it with what it needed and nothing more.
Elliot didn’t look at me with an ounce of judgment. Surely it was not the first time he’d encountered a woman on some diet or another. Maybe that’s why I felt so abashed. I prided myself on being different, strong, unwilling to bend to men, yet there I was, a slave to society’s doctrine that women must be thin and hungry.
“You don’t let yourself enjoy things,” he mused. “But tonight, it’s not you letting you do anything. It’s me. So beyond any physical reactions to the fucking amazing lobster roll in front of you, you’re going to eat the entire thing. Like a good girl.”
My stomach pitched at the way his voice lowered in the last sentence. My belly was also responding to the food in front of me, the kind I had been denying myself for years. Denying myself that enjoyment. I let myself have it with cars, clothing, jewelry, and other expensive things that did nothing to fill the emptiness inside of me.
Yet I couldn’t sit and have a fucking croissant that my sister-in-law made and enjoy it without guilt.
“You charging by the hour for this therapy session?” I asked him in a snide tone he didn’t deserve.
“I’m the one getting the payoff here,” he replied casually, seemingly incapable of being offended. “Now eat.”
He spoke softly, but the authority in his tone was unmistakable.
The rebellious teenager, the rebellious woman inside of me, still wanted to push back, even though I’d committed to a night of obedience. It wasn’t like it was easy to unlearn a lifetime of behavior.
But I was also surprised at how it wasn’t exactly hard either.
My hands latched onto the bread, lifting it up and savoring the feel of the crust, the tasty aromas coming from it.
I took a bite, mindful that Elliot was examining me with rapt attention. Some ridiculous part of me wanted to take a dainty bite so I didn’t seem messy or put him off.
Though I instinctively knew that was not what Elliot wanted from me. So I took a large mouthful, some of the filling exploding from the sides onto my hands and fingers then landing on the plate.
Once the flavors hit my tastebuds, I didn’t care about the mess or the carbs. A low moan burst from my throat, and I looked at Elliot who hadn’t picked up his own roll, just gazing at me with a self-satisfied grin.
I swallowed, wiping the sides of my mouth with my napkin, and not at all embarrassed that he’d witnessed that. Again, like the simplicity of me sitting in the chair, the act of eating had pleased him, and my body thrilled at that again. Along with the delicious taste of something I’d been denying myself.
“Your brother must put crack in his lobster roll if this isn’t the one they’re serving at the restaurant,” I told him.
Elliot chuckled, and the sound warmed my insides better than any kind of dirty martini ever had.
“We had a dueling roll contest early on in the restaurant’s iteration, and he won by a small margin. Next time you’re at Shaw Shack, you’re going to try his and see why I’ll begrudgingly accept the silver medal.”
Next time.
Like it was a forgone conclusion.
I skipped over the bitterness that decimated my insides at the thought then quickly took another bite to chase any lingering feelings away.
Though I expected Elliot to make conversation, he didn’t. He just sat and ate his roll while watching me eat mine. It should’ve been incredibly uncomfortable. But the soundtrack of the vinyl he’d put on before we sat down served to cut away any of the need for conversation.
There was an undemanding warmth in the air. It felt nice. Intimate to be able to enjoy a meal together without the adornment of words.
Though I craved them too, words. I wanted to ask him questions about his life. His past. Old girlfriends. The one he’d hinted had broken his heart when we’d spoken in front of the photos at the restaurant. I wanted to drink up every small detail I could find.