“Maybe we should go to a bar?” says the blonde with her hair in a bun, who is so terribly thin that you can count the ribs on her chest. Lately I’ve tried not to be judgmental, but … she didn’t eat any of her dessert. She just stirred it a little, licked the spoon, and then placed a napkin over the melted ice cream. And some part of me is pleased. Because this woman might be more beautiful than I am, better educated, in a better job, with more money than I have, and she probably has also a great husband and beautiful children. But she’s still unhappy with herself (I’m a terrible person).
