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
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