She came home and made herself an enormous, fattening snack. She sat down in front of the TV and before she could take a bite, the tears came. Hot and thick, they streamed down her girlish cheeks as she pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed convulsively. Several minutes passed before she pulled herself together enough to reach for the phone. Fuck this. I’m calling. Fuck this.

She was about to dial her parents’ number and tell them she had failed, that she was coming home and getting a job in a hair salon or a restaurant or finding a husband and settling down and popping out kids, that this artistic life wasn’t for her, that she wanted mediocrity and security, that it was all coming crashing down, when there sounded a well-timed knock at the door.

She put the phone back down. “Hang on,” she called and dried off her tears with the paper napkin on her lap. She glimpsed her reflection in the microwave door as she walked past the kitchen. Red and puffy – glamorous.

When she opened the door, she was surprised only in a compulsory way to see Samantha draped in front of her doorframe, slouched like a twisted and hung piece of silk. Michelle glanced back inside her apartment. There was a bowl of ice cream melting on her coffee table, a made-for-TV movie on the screen, and she knew it was obvious she had been crying. The pale woman reached out an arm, extending and empty measuring cup, and peeled back her lips in a grin.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. You don’t happen to have any milk, do you? I’m baking cookies.”

Michelle choked once, caught herself, and said, “No, I’m out. And I usually drink soy milk anyway. I’m a little lactose intolerant and the regular kind gives me gas.” She wished instantly that she had left that last part out. She turned to shut the door, faltered, turned again, tried to say something friendly to Samantha, failed horribly, and broke down into a sobbing heap in her doorway.

“Oh, my,” said Samantha as the ballerina wailed with her head in her hands. “Are you all right?”

Michelle only wailed louder.

“Right, well, um, do you want someone to talk to?” Sam shifted her weight back and forth between her feet. “I mean – can I come in?”

Michelle nodded in crimson-faced, snotty acquiescence.

Sam shut the front door, shuffled into the apartment, and set her measuring cup down on the kitchen counter. She slowly approached the crying force on the floor and knelt down beside her.
After a time, the dark-haired woman said, “My mother used to say, ‘No matter how bad things seem, there’s always someone out there who has it worse.’”

Michelle sniffed and collected herself, straightening briefly and held her head up, then broke into a more violent round of sobs.

“Yeah,” Samantha said. “It’s pretty shitty advice. My mom was never very smart about those things. That’s probably why she drank herself to death.” Michelle howled.

Sam bit her lip. “Okay, um, here.” She stood up and took a box of tissues from the counter. She hesitantly placed them into Michelle’s hands. “Do you want to be alone?”

Michelle wasn’t sure, but she shook her head a vehement no.

Samantha knelt next to her neighbor for several minutes in silence as she finished crying. When the heaves quieted to shudders, she placed a precarious hand on her shoulder. Michelle stiffened.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Michelle held her breath and shook her head no again, then wailed for a few more seconds and told Samantha everything that had happened to her since arriving in the city.

“Your boyfriend was a feeder?” said the dark-haired woman when Michelle was quiet. “I don’t think I’ve ever met one of those before.”

“I didn’t even know what they were.”

Sam stood up. The carpet left red stippling on her knees where she had knelt. “I’ve heard of them. People who get off by fattening up other people. It’s a little bit Hansel and Gretel, isn’t it?”

“I guess.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Michelle sniffed in the last of her tears. “I don’t know. I was just about to call my Ma – my mother – and ask if I could come home for awhile.”

“Ah, I see.” Sam bent down and took Michelle’s hand, helping her up and over to the sofa in the living room. She fed her blonde neighbor tissues until her nose stopped running and then brought her a glass of water. “Dehydration is bad for the skin,” she offered helpfully.

Michelle coughed and took the glass. She tilted it back and the water disappeared in seconds. “Not that it matters now,” she said, wiping her mouth with her arm.

“What are you going to do when you go home?”

“I dunno. Get a lame job or get married.”

“That doesn’t sound very promising.”

“Yeah, well, my life peaked at fourteen, okay?”

The women sat on the sofa and stared at the television for a moment, briefly glimpsing the TV movie Michelle had been half-heartedly watching when she first started to cry. Sam picked up the bowl of mostly melted ice cream from the coffee table and began to eat it like soup. “I love Rocky Road.”

“Me too,” said the defeated ballerina.

Sam placed the spoon back into the bowl. “You know, my club is always hiring.” She drew the bowl to her lips and slurped the ice cream sludge loudly.

“You mean as a dancer?”

The stripper smiled with an ice cream mustache. “Well, yeah. They already have enough bartenders. And dancers have a surprisingly high turnover rate.”

Michelle shook her head quickly, immediately. “No, I mean, I couldn’t. Thanks, but there’s no way. It’s just not me.”

“Sure, I understand,” Sam said. “It’s not for everybody. Just wanted to give you the option.” She drank the rest of the melted Rocky Road.

Michelle watched her wipe her mouth with a tissue. She remembered The Caribou, the lights, the smells, Samantha dancing like fire on the center stage. The images came to her like a flashback, consuming her sight, her hearing, and leaving her momentarily detached from her surroundings. When the images stopped, she knew she was still staring at Samantha sitting in her living room, the two women very nearly gazing into each others’ eyes. Michelle shifted imperceptibly in her seat. “Hey, uh, Sam, I think I should be alone now – if that’s okay.”

Samantha smiled. “Oh, of course. I know how hard these things can be. You just collect yourself. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything. And I mean anything at all.” The stripper stood up and placed the empty bowl and spoon in the sink before gliding out the door.

Michelle sat for several minutes staring at the television. The airwaves were filled with nothing, with vacuous artifice and meaningless distraction. Reaching absently for the phone, she dialed numbers automatically.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi,” Michelle said. There was a pause.

“Who is this?”

“Oh, it’s me – your daughter.”

“Oh, sorry honey. It’s been such a crazy day around here.” Her New England accent peeked through as it sometimes did when she became excited. “How are you?”

“I’m… okay. How about you?”

“Oh, things have been normal around here since you kids left, until this morning, of course. Jake finally told me today about he and Rachel.”

Michelle felt herself scowl slightly. “What do you mean? You knew about them over Christmas.”

“No, no” her mother said, growing louder. “He just told me about their engagement! It’s very exciting for your father and I.”

There was a momentary period of silence when Michelle did not yet understand what she had heard. Then she gagged on nothing, gagged on words. “Gjsaksmrd—Jake’s getting married?”

“Yes, of course! Didn’t he tell you?”

She shook her head no before realizing that her mother had no way of seeing her. “No,” she said.

“Oh, well that surprises me. I would have thought he would have told you first. You two have always been so close, you know. He said they’d been engaged for over a week, so I couldn’t imagine that he hadn’t told you yet. Well, that just goes to show, you never know with men.”

Michelle felt suddenly nauseous. She was silent for a few moments as her breakfast and snack began to rise.

“Michelle, are you okay? You’re not saying anything.”

“I’m fine,” Michelle said quietly.

She listened while her pear-shaped, aging mother blathered about how excited she was for the ceremony, the preparation, and the prospect of grandchildren. When she finally got off the phone, she still felt like she was going to throw up. She curled up in a ball on the sofa, too exhausted now to cry, and looked at the TV screen until she fell asleep.