Sugar

by Mia Ballard

There's this thing about descent—it's quiet, almost imperceptible, like the slow fade of sunlight at dusk, until you're standing in the dark wondering where the day went.

This is my penitence, my relentless reminder that the universe has ordained me as an outsider to the intimacy I crave. The thought festers, tangible and sour, a reluctant companion to my unfulfilled dreams.

After five more minutes of insipid small talk, we hang up, and I head for the shower, timing it perfectly so that the lasagna is ready just as I step out. I pull it from the oven and eat it straight from the pan, hunched over the kitchen counter, fork scraping against metal. I keep eating until I feel sick, the self-loathing mixing with the food in a nauseating cocktail. I shove the leftovers into the fridge for tomorrow's lunch. I would’ve never done that if Dean were alive. He always demanded perfection—a size two, the pinch of his fingers on my sides whenever I dared to indulge, whispering in my ear, Whoa there, tiger. Let’s not go up a dress size.

Inside, I am the master of detachment, happy and feeling nothing, a serene tempest of apathy and desire. And somehow, in this chaotic symmetry, I find a twisted kind of happiness in my emptiness, a place where feeling nothing feels like everything.

I chew on the irony, savor its dark flavor.

I wasn’t a murderer—I was just a woman wronged.

It was a strange, almost clinical obsession, a need to have my identity mirrored and validated by the man who occupied my thoughts.

But the funny part is that when you go looking for trouble, it has the gall to play hide-and-seek.