Training in Love

by Manuela Pigna

“Why?” I answered and he pushed a hand through his hair. “Because, about Saturday… I… owe you an apology.”

  “Relax, I’ve lived with a crazy person for a lot of years. I’m used to it.”

  He laughed, embarrassed, and then added, “No, I want to apologize, because you were right. Friday evening I had a conversation… a person told me something that… anyway, Saturday morning I was still upset and angry.”

  “So you see that I didn’t have anything to do with it and you just felt like arguing with someone?” I answered him smiling, so he’d see I didn’t hold a grudge.

  He looked at me, not moving for a second and then nodded looking away. “So you’ll forgive me?” He asked softly, looking at his shoes, and frankly, I had already done so as soon as I had seen him get out of his car. Because the world and life are unjust and they make us weak before beauty.

  “Of course,” I said understandingly, and I smiled at him to show him that everything was ok. Because if there’s one thing we overweight people know how to be, it’s understanding.

  He smiled looking up, visibly relaxed, after which the workout went more or less as usual. We chatted and at the moment of stretching we bickered.

  Now Nic and Linda are seated at a table (today I have the tables) and Andrea should arrive any minute. And I am really nervous. I’m particularly nervous because in a little bit Andrea will see Linda for the first time and he’ll fall in love with her. And this thought has already made me eat two muffins. Today listening to my stomach will be especially hard. Even my mantra will be fairly impractical today.

  “Olly!” Leo calls me from the kitchen. “Your cake is ready.”

  This morning, for the first time, he let me make a cake by myself on the understanding that I’d do it later. I chose to make a blueberry tart. I enter the kitchen and go directly to the counter where it’s sitting. “Hey, it looks delicious!”

  Leo nods. “If some is left over I’ll try it later.”

  “There won’t be any left over!” I say smiling and I take it with both hands. Leo smiles to himself. “We’ll see…”

  When I go back out front, I take less than a second to sense the presence of Andrea. I always know when he’s here, as though he had a microchip with GPS implanted under his skin.

  I cut the tart without looking up at their table and I arrange it on the cake stand in the window. I’m too nervous, and too cowardly, and for these reasons am avoiding looking up and meeting their eyes. I don’t have the courage to see love flower between those two particular people. Unexpectedly, another half chocolate muffin ends up in my mouth.

  Rosy arrives behind me while I arrange the tart a little more artistically. “I was thinking… I figure enough time has gone by to be able to ask the blond guy to give me his number.”

  The fate of the other half muffin is decided. I look at it, waiting for a better moment to eat it.

  “Will you ask him for it? And then, today there’s a gorgeous blond girl with them and I don’t want her to beat me to him.”

  I’m about to nod when I think, “No.” No. Another exercise from Andrea’s book is about standing up for yourself with people. To say “no” when you want to say “no”. And that’s it. Because overweight people often say “yes” when they don’t want to, trying to please others in any way they can. It has to do with an attempt to be liked.

  I decide to carry out the exercise right then and there and, even if there’s a trace of anxiety in my belly, I decide that I can also do without Rosy liking me. “No.”

  “What?”

  I turn towards her. “No, I won’t ask him.”

  “Why?” She looks at me with a half sneer. She’s undoubtedly thinking that I like him - an obviously completely futile thing - and that I’m jealous. Inside I’m wavering, but I resist. I don’t care about being liked by Rosy.

  “Excuse me, at your age, why don’t you ask him yourself? I have to ask him for it as though we were grade school?” I’m proud of myself, it turned out great. Maybe I can avoid the other half of the muffin.

  I dart a brief look at the table in question. Andrea is seated beside Nic, who is now partially hidden from my line of vision, and he’s smiling at Linda with that perfect smile of his. Linda has her hair loose on her shoulders and is smiling back at Andrea. Her cheeks are a little pink which stands out on her pearly skin, that of a true blond. And, if possible, this contrast makes her more beautiful than usual. No, unfortunately the fate of the other half of the muffin is decided. I take it and pop all of it in my mouth, then I chew in a rush because I can’t put off the moment of truth when I’ll go to take the orders. For once I wish that Rosy had to do it.

  “Bonjour,” I begin, trying to at least sound indifferent, if I can’t manage nice.

  Andrea says hi, while the other two greeted me as soon as they arrived.

  “What’s good today?” Nic asks immediately.

  “There’s the tart that I made!” Comes out spontaneously. “Blueberry tart,” I add proudly.

  “I’ll have it, I can’t not encourage the skills of a budding cook…” Says Nic.

  “Me too,” Andrea says immediately. I look at him for a moment. He’s never ordered anything to eat since they started coming here. Anyway I don’t comment, I don’t want to make him feel uncomfortable because of this novelty. And I know everything about discomfort, for this reason I’m scrupulously careful.

  “I really want to try it too,” adds Linda.

  I chuckle, and after having taken their drinks order, I lean on the counter to give Rosy the slip and yell towards the door of the kitchen, “Three slices have already gone!”

  I hear Leo’s deep voice yelling back, “We’ll see!”

  I busy myself with another table in the meantime, two girls who come often and who’ve already asked me for information about Nic and Andrea before. Today they must be a little hesitant because of Linda’s presence.

  When I return with the orders, Linda asks me, “Can’t you sit with us two seconds?”

  I look around. Apart from Madame Barbieri who, when it’s my turn at the tables, stays a little apart because she won’t give up the counter even if you weep in Chinese, there are only the two girls I’ve already served. “Ok,” I answer sitting down beside Linda, then raising my voice adding, “But only two minutes because Leo is a slave driver!”

  I hear the bass voice from the kitchen, “I heard you!”

  I smile to myself and then turn towards Linda. I can’t bring myself in any way to meet Andrea’s gaze. I can’t do it. At least until he speaks to me I can avoid it.

  “It’s really good,” Nic says right away – he’s attacking his slice of tart with a vengeance. I turn around quickly, “Really?”

  He nods and with his mouth half full says, “I think I’ll have another.”

  I straighten up in my chair. “Really?” And for the first time, I realize that I am truly happy. Making something to eat for others, and having them really appreciate it, is almost as lovely and satisfying as eating yourself. I have to remember that.

  “It’s true, it’s really good,” adds Linda, with her head bowed over her plate and her fork in hand.

  “Really?” I repeat turning towards her, now desperate to find another word. She nods. And, before I can stop myself, I turn towards him, because I want to see his face while he eats my tart even more than I don’t want to see his sudden love for Linda. But what I find is him watching me. I lower my eyes to his piece of tart, half eaten, and then I look up, waiting for a comment, but he doesn’t say anything. He lowers his head and continues to eat.

  My shoulders drop slightly, but I hope no-one notices.

  “I’ll have a second round,” says Nic raising his head. I jump up and take his empty plate. “I’ll bring it right away!”

  I almost regret having cut up the whole tart and having made such small slices. When I return with Nic’s second slice, Andrea passes me his empty plate. “Me too.”

  I squint my eyes and look at Linda,
who catches my look and laughing, hurries to say, “No, it’s really good, but for me no.”

  When I return with Andrea’s seconds, I sit down again beside Linda, who is typing something on her telephone. I lean over and read the draft for an sms: I confirm the Brad Pitt level.

  I chuckle, hoping to seem amused, but a vice tightens on my stomach, overfull of muffin among other things. I hand her the telephone and, after a few seconds, she types again: But no-one is more handsome than Marco.

  I smile once again and, silently, give it back.

  “We should do something like this too, Andre,” says Nic, elbowing Andrea. “We’ll tell each other secrets via sms…”

  Andrea observes us without commenting, while finishing the second slice.

  “What do you have to tell each other that we can’t hear?” Nic persists.

  “Who said that we had something to say?” Answers Linda smartly. “Maybe I was showing her a photo…”

  “Hmm…”

  “Olly?” Rosy calls me, with a touch of ill-disguised satisfaction. “Table six.”

  I turn to the two girls who are looking around, in search of me. “I have to go,” I say standing up.

  After having served the girls again – who I try to push my tart to with great nonchalance – the moment I’m behind the counter, Linda and the others get up from the table. Nic waves, Linda says bye and makes a sign towards the telephone, as though to say “later we’ll talk”, while Andrea takes two steps towards me but is intercepted by Rosy. I wave to him and go to clean the empty tables.

  Rosy is doing what I told her to do, that is, asking him for his number herself. The thing doesn’t affect me, anyway Andrea is practically Linda. Would I feel my insides twist if Rosy asked for Linda’s number? Maybe I’d find it mildly irritating, because Linda is mine in a certain sense, but it wouldn’t twist my insides. It’s just that I’m cleaning this table with too much energy… The table in question is that beside the two girls, who suddenly stop chatting. I lift my head to understand the reason for this silence and find Andrea two centimeters from my face. I do a mini-jump back. “Quit moving around so silently.”

  “Why the sad face?”

  “I thought you had gone…” And I look out of the cafè windows to see if Nic and Linda are waiting for him, but they’ve already gone.

  “Could you manage to answer for a change?” He says with a tone that makes me turn immediately towards him.

  “I don’t have a sad face.”

  “What do you mean. You lit up for an instant only for the moment of the tart,” says Andrea putting his hands in his pockets. “Do I have to eat a third slice to see you smile?”

  I smile automatically, but I quickly move towards the other table, a little farther away from the girls, who with an effort return to chatting. I start to clean it even though it’s already clean and he follows me. “What’s wrong?”

  How I’d like to answer with the truth, to answer that I’m hating myself right now, mostly about the muffins, but also for what I feel, and what I felt two seconds ago and what I’m still feeling now. How I’d like to ask him, “Did you give your number to Rosy?”, “Will you go out with her?”, “Will you kiss her?”, “Will you touch her?”, “Do you like Rosy? Or do you like Linda? La marvelous Linda…”

  In the real world I answer, “Nothing.”

  Andrea blows out, “You know what I’d like for once?”

  I lift my head from the table and he takes it as an invitation to continue, “I’d like it if you’d answer my questions.”

  “But really nothing’s the matter.”

  With his hands still in his pockets he looks around for a moment. He moves those transparent eyes from me and, allowing me to observe him longer while he is distracted, I realize that he hasn’t shaved today because he has a light growth of blond hair around his mouth and chin and cheeks… He takes a breath to speak and then stops. He seems to be struggling with himself to say something. In the end he looks at me again, because someone like Andrea is not a coward like me, and says, “What were you eating before?”

  My eyes widen and I blush.

  “Is that why you’re angry? Why you’re sad?”

  I have trouble answering. “You s-saw me?”

  “That was not your breakfast you were eating, was it?” He continues as though I hadn’t spoken.

  I shake my head and he nods.

  “How do you know about certain mental mechanisms?” I ask him, sincerely curious. I’m also happy that he attributes my mood entirely to that.

  “Maybe one day,” he answers with a half-smile, “when you answer one of my three thousand questions which have fallen on deaf ears, I’ll answer that one.”

  I smile, without insisting. After all, I don’t have the right to.

  He looks at the floor for a second, then, again serious he tells me gently, “Don’t let it bother you. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Continue as though you hadn’t done anything wrong this morning. Ok?”

  I nod quickly, and he smiles. “See you later then?”

  I nod again and he smiles again. “See you.”

  “See you,” I reply, while he’s already leaving.

  I notice the two girls who, still at the table, follow him with their eyes as he leaves the shop.

  When I near their table to go to the other part of the room, one of the two calls me.

  “Yes?” I ask, coming right over, thinking that they wanted something to drink or eat.

  “Is that your boyfriend?” She asks me instead, making a gesture with her head to the door that Andrea just left from.

  I laugh as an answer. “But seriously, does that seem possible to you?”

  She shakes her head and shrugs, without giving a real answer, maybe out of politeness. I leave their table to go to Madame Barbieri, who has been watching me for who knows how long, and in an infinitesimal way I feel a little better after Andrea’s words.

  8.

  Today is weighing day. While I walk towards Andrea’s car – he’s already out, standing and reading some loose pages – I prepare myself psychologically. I hope it’s gone well.

  A whole month has gone by since the last weighing and, in practice, I haven’t done a real diet. That is, I haven’t done a diet at all but I have worked a great deal from a psychological point of view, thanks to Andrea’s book. I have done a lot of “exercises” but I’m still working. Even if today goes badly, I’m satisfied. For the first time I feel the beginning of a profound change, not exclusively corporeal. I’ve spent the month carefully listening to my stomach and almost always contenting it and I’ve realized that majority of the time, it’s my mind, in a certain sense, that wants to eat. I’ve discovered that I eat because of negative emotions like stress, fear and anxiety, in order to calm and console myself, but also because of positive emotions, to give myself a prize after doing something well. In reality, any excuse is valid for eating. I’ve learned to wait a minute before stuffing the first thing I find into my mouth, because emotions are energy shields which pass on their own - they go through us and it’s enough to give them the time, without anything tremendous happening. Certainly it’s not always easy, sometimes I’ve made mistakes, I’ve reacted in the usual way before realizing it, but right afterwards, I started to listen to myself again. And, I have to say, listening so deeply to myself is more difficult than any diet I’ve ever done in my life, but I feel like this is the right path. Towards the end of the month I made some meals following Andrea’s advice, but not many – I’ve just started that phase. Yes, I am satisfied, but I don’t know what I’ll tell Andrea if I haven’t even dropped a gram… I’m a little afraid of this...

  “Hi,” I say hesitating, as soon as I reach him.

  He looks up smiling and quickly puts the pages away. “Today we’ll weigh ourselves.”

  I sigh. “I know.”

  He puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid… You can tell just by looking that you’ve lost weight!”

>   “Really?” I think for a bit. “Well actually my pants are a little looser…”.

  He waves at me to join him by the trunk. “Don’t you ever weigh yourself at home?”

  “No. Only with you. What an honor, right?” I joke to lighten the tension.

  Andrea gets the scale, he places it in front of my feet as usual. He hasn’t shaved today either and this slight beard makes him even more beautiful, if possible. I sigh and get on.

  Seventy-seven and a half.

  I jerk my head up and see him, all smiles, looking at the display on the scale. “I can’t believe it!” I almost shout. He lifts his head and laughs. He’s beside me, as always, but this time, instead of bothering me, I’m happy about his closeness. I turn on impulse and embrace him. “I’m so happy…” I whisper near his ear.

  He stiffens for an instant, immobile, then I feel his arms encircle me, picking me up off the scale and setting me down a second afterwards. I detach myself immediately once my feet touch the ground. When I look at him I can’t seem to apologize in any other way than by repeating, “I’m so happy!”

  He nods, but his smile isn’t as big as before. Maybe I’ve embarrassed him…

  Unnerved, I take a step back and point to the scale. “Your turn.”

  He steps on and I come closer again. “Eighty-one and a half!” I exclaim, contented. “You’ve gone up,” I tell him happily.

  He laughs and scratches his neck. “Yeah, well… it’s not much, but… it’s fine.”

  With the scale back in the trunk we go towards the track, following a series of movements and steps that are, by now, familiar.

  “How much do you have to be to do the Iron Man?” I ask him with a new exuberance and energy in my voice.

  He puts his hands in his pockets, while we start walking to warm ourselves up before starting to run. “Huh? No, I don’t have to be a specific weight to do the Iron…”

  “Oh… So then why do you want to gain weight?”

  He looks at me just for a second before turning towards the waiting road and scratches his neck again. “It’s because… I’m too thin.”