Women Drinking Benedictine by Sharon Dilworth Page A

used to woo her.
    Amber sat up in bed, fully awake, absolutely ravenous. She was sure a hotel directly across from the train station did not have room service.
    â€œI need money.” Maurice shook her leg when he saw that she was not listening to his request. “I was supposed to meet a man tonight. That was my job. Instead I spent the time with you. Now I need the money.”
    â€œI suppose you do,” Amber said. The disappointment of the night spread through her body like a sharp pain. She bit her lip, not daring to cry.
    She would not let him ruin her night. She leaned over and kissed Maurice’s hands. “Your hands,” she said in English, “are so pretty.”
    Maurice, no longer interested in giving or receiving language lessons, rolled off the bed and got dressed.
    â€œSex, if you ask me, is highly overrated,” Amber said. “All that talk about how many calories it uses,” she said. “But really all you do is lie there on your back. Doesn’t seem to burn anything.”
    â€œYou’re very big,” Maurice said without emotion. “You must have lots of money.” It no longer sounded romantic.
    â€œYou probably burn more calories trying to find the channel switcher during a good night of television watching. All in all it’s a real waste of time,” Amber declared.
    Amber was upset, but not surprised. Her track record with men was annoyingly consistent. Sally had been right. She asked Maurice to walk her back to the hotel and he grunted something about a restaurant. She followed, thinking food, wine, or both might salvage something of the evening.
    Instead Maurice took her to a crowded nightclub. He walked in ahead of her, and she lost him in the crowd.
    In the small bathroom, a woman stood over the sink, gagging herself with her two fingers. Amber did not need to hear her speak to know she was American.
    â€œYou shouldn’t do that,” Amber said. “It will make you sick.”
    â€œThat’s the point,” the woman said.
    American magazines and television were filled with horror stories about women like these, but Amber had never seen one in action. She watched the young woman throw up with abject fascination. Amber put her hands on her own hips, feeling the thickness, the bulk of her extra weight. And for the first time in years, she felt the strange pull of doubt, feelings she hadn’t had since she was fifteen. She brought her finger to her mouth and pushed it past her lips, down her throat, until she could feel herself gagging.
    She saw herself in the mirror and her mind cleared instantly. However disappointing the night had been, she would not turn stupid. She would not be ridiculous.
    â€œStop,” Amber said. She pulled on the woman’s dress. “Stop this nonsense.”
    â€œHave you ever been thin?” the woman removed her fingers from her throat and talked to Amber in the mirror.
    Amber considered the question. “Not exactly.”
    â€œThen go away,” she said. Her nose was runny. She reached for a piece of paper toweling, then dropped it to the ground when she had finished with it.
    â€œVery glamorous,” Amber said. “Unbelievably romantic.”
    â€œI locked the door,” the young woman said. “I didn’t mean to be a public spectacle. I didn’t expect a group discussion.” She grabbed her hair in a ponytail and bent over the sink again.
    Amber knew she was talking to a woman who would never sign up for an Attr-ACTIVE Women’s Group at the Jewish Community Center. But she was probably worth saving.
    â€œThe discovery of a new dish does more for human happiness than the discovery of a new star,” Amber said. This was not one of Rosemary’s, but considering the situation, it was appropriate—and probably true.
    The thin woman rolled her eyes. “Leave me alone, you weirdo.” Amber had no idea why skinny women were so stupid.
    â€œFood