I have a friend who has an eating disorder. She's tiny. The wind sets her off balance. Most days she doesn't eat. When she does it's just the sweet stuff. Cookies, cake, candy. Today we went to a bakery. We watched a big man make a small cake, all with butter and dough and fistfuls of sugar. She was standing next to me, eyes on her toes. After, everybody got a piece, soft and warm and wrapped in paper. For the rest of the day I watched her hold it. She switched it between hands, put it in her pocket; set it down beside her. I tried not to notice when he hands shook, or when her stomach complained beneath her sweater. As we were leaving the city she threw it away, and her whole body relaxed. I hadn't noticed how rigid her shoulders were until they eased back into place. I think she's stronger than me. Than I? Whatever. I mean yeah the wind can push her--I'm more certain on my feet, but she has this **** addiction and she held it in her palm. There's something I don't understand about that kind of power. If i wanted to prove that I don't need him I don't think I could. There's this prison made by daydreams that won't let me decide between aching for another heart or trying to mend my own.