Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend by Lynda Curnyn

disaster.

Four
    â€œTo binge, or not to binge, that is the question.”
    â€”Weight Watchers escapee
    Confession: I am not as thin as I think I am.
    Â 
    O n my way home from work, after managing to convince myself that I had an absolute right to an all-out binge, I stopped at the bodega on my corner.
    â€œHello!” called out Smiling Man behind the counter, so christened by Alyssa and me, due to the fact that despite his likely status as a minimum-wage worker being exploited by his own bodega-franchise-owning family, he was relentlessly cheerful, no matter what hour of the night you came in—and he worked all night.
    â€œHello!” I called back cheerily, masking my feelings of despair and heading straight for the Hostess rack in the back. As I contemplated the Ho-Hos and Suzy Q’s—even turned over the Twinkies package to shamelessly check the fat content with some vague hope that a nonchocolate selection might save me from utter overindulgence—I realized that for the first time in two years, I was about to head to that counter up front (with an armload of snack cakes) alone. No Derrick by my side to pawn off three-quarters of the booty by making some offhand joke about how he should have limited himself to one or two selections. Picking up a Suzy Q—the largest little cake on the rack by far, and containing the most chocolate per square inch—I actually considered buying one cake here and then hitting another bodega or two until I had enough fat-filled treats to obliterate any glimmer of unhappiness I might be feeling about my prospects at Bridal Best and in life in general.
    But then an old, familiar anger gripped me. What the hell did I care what Smiling Man thought about my fat intake? I told myself, furiously grabbing a coffee cake to add to my Suzy Q before moving on to the next rack for a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips. I realized now that was exactly my problem: I cared a little too much about what others thought. Forget Caroline and her enigmatic expressions. (What the hell did interesting mean anyway?) And who did she think she was, with her Earth Mother approach to life and that perfectly constructed bubble she lived in out in the burbs, to judge me just because I wanted something better for myself, I thought, grabbing up a Yoo-hoo from the dairy section before I headed for the front and, with a look of false bravado, plunked everything on the counter.
    â€œIs that it?” Smiling Man asked, his grin seeming somehow wider as he gazed on my selections.
    â€œYes, that’s it,” I said, standing strong as I counted out the obscene amount of money the register showed after he had rung up my purchases.
    â€œGoodbye! Have a good night!” he called out in a singsong response to my muttered thanks.
    Marching down the street to my building, I tried desperately not to let any thoughts creep in about how Derrick and I used to wander this way, arms linked, gazing at all the beautiful brownstones and dreamily picking out ones we’d like to live in. Of course, he was only caught up in the moment, while I—
    â€œHello, neighbor,” Beatrice said, holding open the door to the only dilapidated building on this magnificent block—ours.
    â€œHi, Beatrice, how are you?” I said by rote, then cringed for the response.
    â€œWell, I’d be a lot better if I hadn’t let myself eat pastrami for lunch. I’ve been tasting it ever since! Oh, the indigestion that stuff gives me, and I don’t know why. In truth, I—”
    â€œMail come today?” I asked, not wanting any more information on the particularities of pastrami the second time around as I made my way into the foyer.
    â€œOf course it came,” she said, following me to my box andstanding a little too close for comfort as I pulled out a wad of junk mail and bills.
    Eyeing a clothing catalog in my hand, she asked, “Did you ever find anything you liked in