Bulge Button

He kisses you in the elevator.

On the cheek, of course, like a brother sending his younger sister off to bed, or is it war? Either way, it backs you into a corner of this metal box that's suddenly become too small to contain you.

"You're doing alright, " he says, when you tell him that you're gaining weight and you've begun to let yourself go again.

You vow - I will go back to working out for two hours everyday even if it kills me. "With your schedule," he retorts, incredulous. "Your hair's already falling out from the stress!"

He chuckles when you say you'll stop stuffing your face with chocolate, because he knows just how much you love it. "You'd choose the perfect truffle over good sex," he jokes.

He also laughs as you promise out loud that you'll now only eat sensible meals, three squares or less a day. "And the buffets?," he chides you, that tart Melbourne accent of his adding levity to the words, 'all that 'eating' you're doing for 'work'?"

That stops now. Starve me, you tell him, before I gain back all that I'd lost.

He replies - you're lovely just the way you are.

Without dwelling too much on the shape of his lip, how it reminds you of peaches in summer, you return his kiss. It is brief, uneventful. The elevator does not shake. Its cables had been wired differently, for some other purpose than this. When its doors open, you both hesitate to step forward. In the end, he holds it open for you, letting you go first.

A week from now, he will be back in Australia. And after his despedida party this Friday, you shall probably never see each other again.

But you are doing alright. You tell yourself, I'm doing alright.