Chynoweth gobbles marzipan over the bathroom sink then promptly regurgitates like an egret, her long neck rolling and buckling like corrugated cardboard, until every morsel has been extruded. She then returns to the party. Her merlot gown swishing as she strides across the travertine flooring, a teeny speck of warm vomit staining the taffeta at the collarbone.
The main salon is abuzz with small talk, overblown laughs, and roving eyes. She spots Armando across the room. His head flicking back as it does when he registers agreement, mouth opening and closing like a Pez dispenser. It is the height of vitamin D deficiency season, but the room is full of globe trotters bronzed like crispy Doritos, torched like crème caramel, charred like over-processed charcuterie, malignant epithelial cells dancing wildly. Chynoweth smoothes down her micro bangs, shame barely noticeable.
At the last bougie cocktail party, Chynoweth disappeared one too many times into the powder room, once to gorge on Kentucky bourbon balls, the other to dismember creamy pistachio ganache beignets, licking her pointy gel nails until all the gooey innards wolfed. An unexpected exposure with another guest overhearing her regurgitating, left her reeling. The refrain inside her head echoing, “never give the appearance of being greedy, Chynoweth”, her mother had drilled. Chynoweth indulges in secret. Gets rid of the evidence posthaste. It’s not always a clean getaway.
Chynoweth’s mother, Diedre, a fervent faux anorexic, was born of excessive wellness retreats—water fasting, juice fasting, intermittent fasting, graduating to extended and long-term fasts—prides herself on a miraculous lack of appetite. Diedre detests self-indulgence, the appearance of any such display especially. Chynoweth grew up with severe restrictions – treats expressly verboten.
She’s healing— a work-in-progress—her therapist says.
Cynoweth hobnobs making small talk, the back of her hand flicking like a tail fluke as she waves away silver trays of eye-popping insta-worthy appies. She is never seen to hunt and peck, her Burberry Oxblood Lipstick never smeared. All around her, mouths dribble and drool, guzzle, and gulp, while she alone remains pristine, purportedly free of the gluttony.
Armando’s neck gimbals as he scans the room for Chynoweth. He knows her story…. has vowed never to comment, never to leave her exposed. It’s how the marriage works. He passes her a linen napkin. She fills it with a selection of dainty petit fours: sugar blossom yuzu jelly, velvety dobos torte, espresso bean dark chocolate, limoncello raspberry truffle. Her Noir Mini Kelly bag bulging en route to the ladies’ room. Armando waits, a patient man. His hand plunged deep in his pocket petting the fob to his mustard yellow Lamborghini, yet another gift from Chynoweth. A few more passes at the sweet table and they can go home.
