Wasted / 233
in. I'd see them in a pile on my desk when I stepped in late at night, and read them, grinning: It's working, I'm going to make it. Life was good. I sat in a café early mornings, reading papers, drinking coffee. One day I remember vividly: I was wearing a short skirt and a green blouse and spring was beginning. I tossed my jacket over my shoulder and sauntered down the sunny street. Buds on the trees. I walked into work and sat down at my desk. There was a kick-ass photographer on the staff who sometimes appeared at my desk, spreading out negatives for one of my stories, bending over them, our heads close together, gesturing wildly, and then he'd shoot off to the darkroom again. His name was Mark. He showed up at my desk that particular morning and hollered (he was always hollering), HI! I laughed and he stood there a minute, looking befuddled. I said, “Yes?” And he said, “You look very nice today.” I stammered. We sat there looking at each other for a minute more, dazed. The spell broke and he was in motion again. I had a major story running the next day, what did I want him to shoot? He crouched down next to my chair and we jabbered and waved our hands and he tapped my shoulder lightly as he left and I stared at my blank computer screen for a while and thought, Oh, no. It was not a good time to fall in love. Nights got later and later. I'd come in the back door quietly so as not to wake my parents, and I'd sit down at my desk, keep working. My father and I had a final blowout and I left, moved into a friend's house until I found a place to live. I went to therapy less and less often. Mark and I began seeing more of each other, leaning against each others' desks and talking a mile a minute, maniacs both, skipping out for coffee, just the two of us or with other reporters, heading back to the office in a dark that got warmer daily. We went to dinner one night, alone. We drank a lot of wine. We lay on the living room floor of his house. I read him some of my work. It was very late. When I was done, he took my hand, turned it palm upward, carefully traced the lines. Threaded his fingers with mine. 3/4. Marya refuses to be weighed. Blood pressure orthostatic, very low temperature. Body fat 14.5% (in Lowe House, BF="19%)." Feels bony! Suspect reemerging eating disorder.