"So, has life become easier to navigate lately?" 

        I stare hard at her, at my counselor. Her haughty eyes beat a path into my soul. And that unwavering posture. It was obvious—or maybe I was just over-observing—but she took her job seriously. 

        "Of course not," I say, sitting across from her in the floral, flowery-decorated armchair. "Why would it ever?" 

        Sure, six months is enough time to change a person, but I'm no ordinary woman, hardly what I'd call a human anymore. I have the skin, the features, the body, the ordinary habits: brushing my teeth, sleepily slipping into a bra backward, and sitting in the shower. But habits don't make a person a person; chemistry does. Mine feels skewerd, held over a fire, burned, stripped. 

        Her lips move, but no sound bursts forth, not for an instance. Then she shifts, arms crossing, legs settling on one another. The woman frowns, wrinkles forming above the cusp of her eyebrows—decadent lines of wisdom. "Violet, this isn't good. We talked about this last week." Her lips spread sadly, and she sighs, and man, do I mean sighs. "Talk to me, what's changed?"

        I smile absently, mind elsewhere. "When we're speaking literally, it's gotten worse," and, in some aspects, so has my grammar. My level of illiteracy has dropped off, but in its place, I no longer sport a double chin or stretch marks. "I go from college to work, from work to Zander's, and repeat, repeat, oh-my-gosh, repeat." 

        The woman's face contorts, collapsing in on itself, "Maybe take a gap semester?" Her ball-point pen clicks against the wood. "You can take breaks; it's not a sign of weakness." 

        Weakness. Oh, weakness. My least favorite word in the entire Merriam-Webster dictionary. I'm not weak, no, nowhere close. And I haven't given in to the sickness in months. 

        "I'm not weak," I emphasize, leaning forward, dropping hands on my knees, on the elastic fabric of my spandex. "But not a bad suggestion for anyone else, though I won't adhere to it." The grin eclipsing my cheeks is flabbergasted but charming nonetheless. 

        "Well, have you at least stuck to the goals we set for you?" 

        My body releases the tightness building, and it relaxes. "Hmm?" I say, confused. "Which ones?" 

        "Violet, stop messing around; we only have 5 minutes, and it's frustrating because we've made zero progress."

        Maybe I'm slipping further into my insatiable appetite for unfazed irritability, but I find how she speaks when aggravated quite interesting. She's like a cat; when happy, she's a playful bundle of fun, but when pissed off, she becomes a harbinger of madness, a deadly typhoon. And then—WHOOSH—she'd drop all her emotions on me. It was exhilarating and impossibly cute. 

        "Pitty patty, patty pitty, blah, blah, blah!" I smirk, covering my face and staring at hers. "Miss Samantha?" I say, putting in effort to soothe the annoyance I've caused. 

        "Yes?"

        "Do you think I'm coping?" I play with my sunset red hair, pinching and stroking each hydrated curl. My heart beats gently inside my ribcage, a faint thumping—a healthy, caffeinated heart. "I feel like I'm advocating for the holes in my life."

        For some reason, I feel an overwhelming sense of despair. Perhaps I should get tested for bipolar. 

        Miss Samantha gazes at the ceiling, pupils dancing with a reinvigoration of life. "I think you've been through some traumatic events; of course, you'd be coping to some extent." Her pen cycles through her withered fingers: pinky, thumb, middle finger, back to the first, and so on. "You should've brought this up earlier." 

        Behind her, the analog clock ticks intimidatingly, teasing me about the time constraints. With each tick, its wrenching laugh transitions higher and higher. Octave after octave, until I can no longer recognize the shrill cries it lays on me. 

        My tongue clicks in time with the clock. 

        Again. 

        And again. 

        Almost a third, but Samantha, Sam clears her throat. To be broken from my daydream was a hell all in itself. 

        "Thank you for coming in, Violet. I hope to see you at the same time next week," she extends her hand for me to shake. 

        It's a deep brown, an alluring brown, like a birch tree, but without the birch, one might mistake it for orange. But, she was beautiful, in her own right, in my right, in all I've asked. She's an aromatic lilac waiting to bloom.

        "Walk me to the front desk?" I ask, shaking it crudely. 

        Miss Samantha nods, "Something on your mind?"

        I stand, stretching my sore legs. My hands naturally guide themselves into the dinky pockets of my spandex. "Yeah, just a small something." 

        As we exit, she lets the door swing closed. And then, we're off. The spacious corridor of the hallways, with the delightful smell of freshly painted walls, greets my nose. Miss Samantha keeps pace with me, waiting for me to begin. 

        "Have you ever wanted to kill yourself? You know, jump in a river, drown?"

        Her countenance flips faster than I've seen one change before. She stops me then and there, right in the middle of the hall, gladly, thankfully, no one's watching. "Violet, is this happening to you?" She demands. 

        The atmosphere condenses, and if I were to take one step, my body would turn into a scientific experiment, a pile of red blood cells and severed arteries. Samantha holds that much authority. "No, just wonderin'."

        She arches her left eyebrow. Bushy and dark. "Promise?" Her hands gravitate toward her wide hips.

        I do her one better, "Pinky promise," and, without her consent, I wiggle my pinky around hers. It's warm, a bit sweaty, and tiny. "I'm sorry for worrying you." 

        "Violet, I want the best for you..." Miss Samantha says emphatically. She clutches my hand firmly, taking a breath. "But I can't force you to change. However, I'll do everything to be there if you need anything." 

        Yeah, anything if it involves a fat stack of dollar bills. There it is, your average, almost too-good-to-be-true response from someone in a professional place of power. It nearly made me angry, but I was better than that.

        "You're getting paid to say that," I flash a level-minded smile, showing that I know, that I know, she's not my friend. And if my parents forgot a payment even once, she'd press pause on replying to my texts. "Though, I'll allow it to slip through my tingling fingers," I shove my hands in the pockets of my tights, rubbing along my underwear. "Thanks though..."

        Miss Samantha rolls her eyes, "You're most welcome, Violet." She laughs contently, "I enjoy you and our all-over-the-place conversations." 

        We continue strolling through the neverending hallway. When we clammer into the waiting room, Samantha stops near the reception desk while Spence, the cheerful guy with the mushroom haircut and contagious laugh, waves at me. 

        "Bye, Spence!" I holler, attracting a few glares from other patients, counting down the seconds to be admitted by the staff to one of their private offices. 

        As I put distance between me and my counselor, I bid her farewell with a final statement. I say it not to show my growth as a character, as a person playing life's devious game, but as her pawn—as the little unimportant bishop in her chess game. 

        Inhaling masterfully, I project my voice further than I once would've liked. "You've done a lot of good," my voice tickles eloquently, "I look forward"—my hand sinks into the button on the elevator—"To next time." With a wink and a gurgly laugh, I bow. And as the elevator dings and the automatic metallic doors shift, Miss Samantha shoots a thumbs up. 

        She's punctual in her own, sometimes perplexing, often awe-inspiring way. And I love that about her.

╔═══════ ೋღ 🌸 ღೋ ═══════╗

        Zander taps me until I respond. And my eyes dart around the moving vehicle. Only then do I realize I'm leaning presumptiously on his little sister's shoulder, drooling heavily on her white casual dress. 

        "Zounds," I yawn, rubbing the sleep from my eyelids and sitting straighter. The beautiful sunset made my eyes water vicariously. "Sorry, Persilla." I stare at the front, not simply at the simmering yellows, oranges, and reds, but at the people driving the car: Zander's mother and father. 

        Persilla's eye twitches, and she turns toward the backseat window, squeezing herself almost entirely into the crevice of the car. She wedges herself in deep. "It's fine," she lulls, obviously withholding a good beatdown. "I don't mind it, or I wouldn't if you didn't drool."

        Eh, fair assessment. "Gotcha," I mutter, tilting the other way on Zander's square, firm body. "Sorry I fell asleep; did I snore?" 

        "A LOT!" Percilla caps, bonking my head. "Sometimes I wonder what made my stupid brother fall in love with such a quirky woman."

        "Oi, be nicer, little girl." Zander teases, leaning over me to hit her. Today, he tried a different cologne, smelling of bourbon and spices. Sexy and sweet. 

        Though I have to give her a shoutout, talking back to your older brother, the star of his high school basketball and football team, took a lot of nerve. But, in all modesty, it was a testament to their bond. 

        The car speeds through the city, slowing at stop signs and craftily swaying in and out of lanes. I hear the calm engine hum; I feel the slight jostle of their minivan as it jumps and leaps over bumps and cracks; I see the undisturbed sunset hide behind cloud-piercing office complexes; the cool air that eats at my pristinely done-up face that teethes and seeps with so much makeup Marilyn Monroe wouldn't know what to say. I admire the beauty of nature, of the honks and beeps that cars, trucks, and vans make as we pass and stop, pass and stop. But I refuse to worship it; nature is nature, and it's presumably gorgeous, with the hand-crafted landscapes that fill up the noblest of canvasses—but it all withers, grows old, and dies. So I've decided to respect it, no loitering, no littering, no impeding upon mother nature, but strictly against the activists who spend their whole lives worshipping the earth like it's a magical essence. 

        After a few turns and further stops, we turn into a steakhouse. It's not just any steakhouse. It's fancy, schmancy, a dining place of the gods, even. Zander's family, even his sister, whom I rarely get the pleasure of talking to (let alone spending expanded periods with), has decided to join us. 

        "Walleye Steaks," I say, scanning over the gigantic black and blood-red board as Zander opens the side door. He slithers out, and Percilla follows suit, albeit to my right. "Never been here," I mouth to Zander, taking his hand. 

        Percilla escapes to walk with her parents, giving Zander and me a moment of much-appreciated aloneness. 

        "Are you rich?" I elbow his forearm, "Geez if you are, I'm marrying into a respectable family." I meant it purely as a joke—but I knew my sentence was alarmingly skeptical. "I don't mean to belittle—" 

        Zander swings his hand around my sculpted neck, bringing me in. I giggle, running my anxious fingers through his hair first, then down to his butterfly-inducing stomach. The jagged-ruggedness of his six-pack almost drowns me in neurotoxins. Ah, to be a product of love again makes my heart thump proudly. 

        Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump!

        "I know you didn't," he says silly-faced, his prickly little beard stretching into a hard-earned smugness. "You're too cute for that." 

        I punch him, "Enough with the iffy compliments; your parents are here!" I groan, clinging to him to show the whole wide world that he's mine, my property, my lover. 

        The restaurant's aroma causes my stomach to growl, and I apologize somberly to it for neglecting it for half the day. But a dietician can't ignore her duty to serve the masses, serve the hungry, thirsty men out there, and give them a show they'll never forget. I am that woman now—as pitiful and teeth-grinding as that may be—it's what makes the butterflies in my stomach flourish. 

        It's what makes me feel complete.

        Zander shrugs off the comments, "They love you," and his face loses a bit of charm as he continues. He pauses to open the door for me, then, after we've reunited with his family, he whispers, straight-faced and unapologetically, "Especially now."

        What was that supposed to mean? Was it because I'm skinny now?

        Following the zigzagging pattern of a petite girl no older than me, we're seated. I take the wall as Zander and his sister squeeze in. It's hilariously annoying how small they make these fancy shindigs nowadays; even in my current form, it's too tight. 

        My elbows scrap against the splintered wood, and my dress, lavender because my name calls for it, catches a loose scrap. I bunch my fists, roll my eyes, curse silently, pray, bite my tongue—none of it does crap. The only thing it does contribute to is my growing resentment of all things 'standard.'

        But, I am a living example of what society bends to—fitness fanatics. 

        "Violet, we're proud of you for continuing your workouts!" Mrs. Hinkley praises, clasping my hands in hers. Her white-blonde hair jumps all over, excited to leave the weak bun she restrained them to. Frizzy, wild, unbound, they trickle down over her right eye. "You've come a long way." 

        "Love it even more that you and Zander work together, pushes your relationship to the next level." Mr. Hinkley chimes in, tap-tapping his swollen digits on the authentic hickory table. Under his mass, under the girth and strength of his pinky, the once-tree doesn't flinch. 

        I nod, playing with fake smiles again, concealing the animosity sitting behind what's considered a beautiful complexion. At the intersection of the moment, the straps of my fancy-but-not-too-fancy date dress wilt. It snakes around my biceps, the front beginning to sag forward. 

        "Sorry," I murmur, weaving them over my shoulders. Zander oohs, placing his hand on my quivering thigh. I jerk, closing my eyes; this is not the right time. Dinners with the family of your beloved are for fun, simply topics explored openly, not sexual affairs happening behind the scenes. "Anyway, thanks for that!" I quickly bounce back. 

        "You're welcome!" Mrs. Hinkley states, checking to see where the waiter is. "It's gonna be longer until we get our steaks if we don't order soon." She says hopefully to her husband, but the words hang, suspended, waiting for someone to claim.

        "Exactly," Percilla says, swiping on her phone. "I'm famished." And her tone, the sarcastic triviality, screams: laugh, but don't laugh too hard. 

        "I'm hungry too," I pout kindly, more like a meek-mannered dog than a panic-stricken pig. "I could eat this place into poverty." 

        They burst into giggles until tears line the edges of their eyes. 

        "Said like a real glutton," Zander chirps, patting my head like a baby duckling. 

        I cross my arms, my hunger multiplying. "Not a glutton, dum dum." I gaze between his mother and father—toward the balding head of someone rubbing their hands together as a plump waitress serves delicate lamb chops to them. I'm sure they're salivating. 

        Is that?

        Is THAT? 

        Is that Benjamin Evens?!

        My back stiffens eagerly, "Zander," I quietly implore, nudging his ribs. 

        "Yes?" He replies, zeroing in on my structured cheekbones like they're the loveliest thing since Queen Hatshepsut. "Something wrong?"

        I shake my head abnormally harshly, "I think that's Benjamin Evens from high school!" I take a half breath, pointing, "My first boyfriend, remember?"

        "Yeah," Zander cranes his neck, moving so he has a clear view. "No way he's balding." He cracks up. "Is he balding?!"

        Pinching his hand, I shush him maturely. My maternal instincts flared up worse than arthritis. "Shush," I lean on Zander, "No way I liked him."

        Zander and I share a hardy laugh just to ourselves. Nobody else gets it, just me and him, boyfriend and girlfriend, future husband and wife. And as I relax in his arms, a server finally finds their way to our table. 

        God bless America.