Page 33 of Mountain Mens' Curvy Obsession

“They’re like tiny marshmallows!”I hear myself as a child laughing.

My brother’s shadow is beside me, keeping me safe.

“You’ll really like this little treat,” Breonna says, pulling me back into the present. She just opened a packet of instant hot chocolate powder, and I can see the small white squares in a separate plastic sachet from where I’m sitting. “I told you; it’s really good.” She pauses to look at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, sorry. My head’s all over the place these days. I tuned out for a second. You were telling me about your ballet days.”

“And you asked me if I miss it,” she replies and prepares the first serving of hot chocolate using milk from the fridge and the steamer function on her coffee machine. The gurgling sounds it makes in its stainless-steel pot briefly hypnotize me. “The ballet. I’ll be honest, I do miss it, but I don’t miss the sacrifices it came with.”

“Oh?”

Another memory swoops in, of a favorite bistro in Manhattan. Sunlight streaming through the window, and the barista—whose name I remember, it’s Jeff—telling me they’re out of hazelnut syrup for my latte, but I should try the pistachio one they just got in. It’s Italian, he says.

“No social life whatsoever.” Breonna keeps pulling me back. Every sound and smell push a sensory button in my head, unraveling memories, but the conversation has me anchored in the present, whether or not I like it. “No friends. Barely enough food to function, truth be told. Anastasia wanted us as skinny as possible, especially before a show. The week prior to opening night, she’d have the entire company, the understudies included, weighed every morning.”

“That sounds… awful,” I mutter.

“You’ve never had a problem with that, clearly,” she chuckles dryly as she pours the first serving into a big ceramic mug and adds the mini marshmallows on top.

“Excuse me?”

“With a scale, I mean. You obviously don’t care.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Breonna gives me a wry smile, and it only serves to fan the flames of my indignation, even as she brings the mug over to me before she goes back to prepare her own. “You’ll have to forgive me, Anya, I’m the brutally honest type,” she says. “And I’m not really apologetic about it either. I tell it like it is. I mean, surely, you’re aware that you’re on the plus side, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s not a problem, mind you. I’m not judging. But it’s just a statement of fact. In my line of work, my weight and figure were central to my success. And I excelled as a dancer. Now and then, I still fast for a day or two, just to drop a few extra pounds after the winter, but that’s the part I don’t miss about being a ballerina. The constant hunger was awful.”

I don’t know whether it’s microaggression or just Breonna’s personality, but I have mixed feelings about how she speaks about these things. Maybe I’ve always been sensitive about my weight. Maybe this sensitivity stems from childhood or adolescence. Kids can be mean.

“Fatty!” a young boy’s voice screeches in the back of my head.

“Say that again, and I’ll hang you up by your boxers, you little twerp!” my brother shouts at the bully.Yet another memory, loose in my train of thought.

“And what do you do for a living now?” I ask Breonna, trying to avoid another slip.

“I’m the VP of a marketing agency in Denver,” she says.

“Is it what you imagined yourself doing after ballet?”

“No!” She laughs bitterly. “I always wanted to start my own dance company. But then I met my husband, well, ex-husband now. He got me a job at his agency. I grew from there in the public relations department. Divorced his cheating ass. And here I am, three years later, climbing up the business ladder, I guess.

“Don’t get me wrong, I like what I do, and the money is sweet. It’s how I’m able to afford this and all my trips, of course. Part of me still wishes I could do something with ballet, though,” Breonna adds.

“How about you? What’s your career path?” She joins me at the counter island with a hot chocolate of her own, while I take a sip of mine.

“Oh, you’re right, this is delicious,” I say with a smile.

“I’m glad you like it,” she says, then waits for my reply.

I lower my gaze for a moment, trying to figure out an appropriate response. I might as well tell the truth. Breonna seems intent on giving me hers, whether or not I like it.

“I don’t remember,” I tell her.

She looks understandably confused. “What do you mean?”

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