THE GRIEF DIET Caroline Leavitt
W
e’re all at dinner. The restaurant is one of Manhattan’s fanciest, with white tablecloths and a hushed quiet and waiters in black suits, and the menu is so long that I joke it might as well be a novel. My boyfriend, Rick, whom I’ve been living with for six months, has invited his parents to eat with us. His mother, all frosted yellow hair and overstuffed dress, talks about her latest diet. His father, tall and lean and handsome, jokes, “In my next life, I’m marrying someone skinny.” Everyone except me laughs. I push my bread plate away, the slice of semolina uneaten even though it looks delicious and I’m so starving I could eat my shoes. Rick watches and takes my hand and squeezes it encouragingly.