She had made the decision two nights before. Rain hit the roof and carried the scent of creosote through the open window panels. She took a deep breath in as she tried to figure out, by way of the mirror, if her stomach was any bigger than a week before. She wasn’t sure (could she ever be?), but the croesote aroma brought her thoughts to her childhood and she immediately feared being bigger than before the last time any of her family and friends saw her. It was midnight, and the two-story house was asleep. The cream-colored tile was cold against her feet and she stopped just before the even colder scale, which lay innocently before the door.
“I’m not going to find out right now. I’ll wait until tomorrow morning,” she thought, eyes moving back and forth between looking down at her stomach and the scale, trying to devise what number might appear. “Besides, stepping on a different scale could be way off,” she convinced herself. The next morning passed, but the thought stuck and proved too much for the following morning. On the scale, off the scale, into the shower. Nothing happened. Nothing happened except the next 6 hours she spent multitasking. Multitasking conversations with friends; “What about these shoes?” How many calories did you just eat? “Yeah, those are pretty.” You cannot eat dinner.
This morning, after a hundred days of not knowing, she entered the bathroom a human being and emerged as a number.