The perfect way to get over a marriage, cooking. He had done little else over the last few week, other than his job.
Gourmet food was something of a natural art to him, and he relished in the tastes and textures and technicality. Home made flaky pastry, that could occupy him, it was a challenge.
He had taken a few dishes to the airfield and was complimented. Martin took it a step further, moaning with the smallest taste; Douglas felt like he was given audience to something he wasn't privy to.
He, as a result, was eating more. He hadn't noticed until the waistband of his uniform trousers began to dig harshly into his increasing paunch. He was self conscious for the first time in years.
It didn't help that he sat next to Martin all day long. Martin; with his skinny hips and nipped in waist, not an ounce of fat to be seen. Martin; with his curls and freckles and bloody cheekbones you could use to cut glass. Martin; who helped him see his lack of control.
His stomach brimmed with creamy pasta. It was making him ill.
He hurried to the bathroom, knelt over the toilet, and put two fingers down his throat; relieving him of the calories and fat and weight.
Martin would not best him - soon, he'd be thin.