I'll Be There

In the beginning, there was no evidence he existed except my breath still stutters at the phrase weight check. Dr. Wilson wore red socks, offered sample packs in a manila envelope, told me I was pretty and shrinking in exactly the right way. Said we’d do a quick exam— just routine. Hands under the gown, thumbs on the outer edges like he was measuring range or resistance. He never said breast. He never said anything. Just held each one like it was a question and waited for me not to answer. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t leave. I said thank you. Took the pills and the compliment in the same swallow. At home I bragged that my jeans fit like an apology. There’s no evidence he existed besides my body asking how many parts it must offer to earn approval. Except every man in red socks makes me want to run— throw up about something I’ll pathologize about later, by myself. Even though it began with his own being irresponsible with power. There's a day coming when it won't be like this.