The Anorexic and the Coeliac go out for dinner

There is faint chatter circling our table of the restaurant, conversations from the world around seep in like mould, quietly invading our space. We hear banal chit chat discussing weather, taxes and new haircuts, subjects as enthralling as the colour beige. We look assertively at one another from across the table both knowing what the other is thinking deep inside the realms of our heads. I can feel her trepidations; that the food she is about to consume may have her sprinting wildly to the bathroom to evacuating her insides like a tsunami with no vengeance. She can feel my reservations; that the plate of food which will soon be eaten will add layers of unwantedness onto my existence. Seems extreme I know. Perhaps we are both just melodramatic; perhaps that’s why we work best together. Playing off one another’s fears about the forever terrifying, relentless experience which is food. The very thing which keeps us alive and what most people take great pleasure in devouring riddles us with fear and anguish.

I glance up to meet her eye as we both fake an alluring smile and attempt to show that neither of us are nervous, inside my guts are churning, my mouth is dry and a tremble has arisen in my foot which I bounce up and down to distract myself. I see a very thin yet prominent bead of sweat roll down her forehead as she imagines the worst; a cramping stomach, a wave of uncertainty followed by a quick dash to the nearest hospitable place to drop her waste. I myself do not have these fears. Instead, mine are much more precarious, pointless imaginings of organs thickening, jeans tightening and my face filling. Pointless, ridiculous even. I attempt another try at conversation, a vague mission to decrease the solemn mood of our table.

'So what has been the highlight of this trip for you?'

'I don’t know,' she replies, a rather puzzled look on her face.

I don’t know. (Her answer to everything.) Never give her a choice. You never get a straight answer. Suddenly I hear footsteps behind me, my venomous eyes darting to whoever has dared enter the vicinity of our table almost causing whiplash as my head turns. No, it’s not the waiter carrying our dreaded meals, it’s just another random passerby experiencing another evening of food and laughter. They are not worried that what they are about to consume will give them a horrific bout of illness nor are they in any way fearful that whatever they eat will remain on their bodies for the foreseeable future like a gluttonous trophy. So why are we at this table pondering the implications of our meal? Analysing the very foundations of the nutrition on a plate? It’s a hard one I can tell you.

I am facing backwards so cannot see the lanky Italian waiter approach us with two platefuls of deliciousness in his hand. He places her meal in front of her with a slight thud as the plate hits the wooden table.

'Gluten free one, yes?' she asks, a mixture of fear and exhaustion at having to ask visible in her eyes.

He nods faintly at her question, not bothering to give a proper reply. Her look worsens as her uncertainties deepen. Mine is then popped down beside the knife and fork already laid out, beside the paper napkin already folded in preparation. Deep breath, you can do this I tell myself. Deep breath she thinks, you can do this. We both look up at one another and stare intently speaking inwardly to each other. You can do this. As if by routine, we both reach for our cutlery. Ceremoniously we cut a piece of food, lift it to our mouths and sigh. With a subtle eloquence it enters our mouths. We chew. We swallow, we breathe. At last a replenishing thought emerges. We repeat this motion until the bulk of our food has vanished leaving only a small remainder that neither of us can quite manage.

We both look up with relief at our triumph. Another meal consumed another day well spent. I know that I am alright, safe even, that my fears subside when I ace them like a lonely child facing up to its bully. She sits quietly waiting as if she knows what has happened so many times before will inevitably happen again. I clock the waiter’s eye and request the bill; in a rather docile tone he acknowledges my request and saunters to get the piece of paper which will no doubt empty our pockets. We pay and leave both jovial at our success. As time passes her stomach does not ache, no overwhelming amount of toxins are enriching her bowel. No running, no uncertainty. Yes, her meal was in fact safe. We walk down the street back to our hotel with a slight skip to our step. Yes, this may be childish and, yes, it may not be a forever glorifying achievement, but to us it’s a pretty big deal.