Food has always been a touchy subject in my life. Early in life, I struggled with my weight and have never, truly felt comfortable in my own skin.
For over a decade, I typically refused to eat in public. Even at 130 pounds, I was so obsessed with not eating around my friends that I fainted twice that summer.
This stigma has stuck with me so long, that even now–in my most comfortable relationship, I rarely eat–10 months in.
He makes me feel beautiful.
Momentarily, when he kisses me or touches a space on my back.
When his hand is on my hip and we snuggle on the couch.
When he smiles at me with those gorgeous, diamond eyes.
But I don’t like tacos.
I can’t stand pizza.
Sweets make my stomach cringe.
Last night he bought me dark chocolate.
Last night I stayed home and didn’t get snuggles.
He took me on a date; we ate sushi and he giggled at my attempts to use the chopsticks.
It was a delicious, impromptu date.
The best date.
But that dark chocolate will likely get stale, unless he’s a fan or I let the wine flow too free–and my instincts