August 1981 – Fairfield, CT

Angela was still laughing as she walked out to her car that night. I was right. These ladies are good for me. Somehow, during the course of talking with them, the near audible ticking of the clock she'd imagined she had left 'till she had to go home, had somehow quieted to the negligible background. It's not even that I'm conveniently forgetting so that I'm not scared. I remember well. Actually, I'm pissed. Her drive home was less than a minute or two, but she was in the mood for music. Stevie Nicks was singing on the first station she found, and Angela started following along.

When she pulled up to the house, it was 1:41am. She glared up toward their bedroom for a few seconds. Getting out, she didn't bother to be extra-quiet, grateful her mother was keeping Jonathan all night. "Stop draggin' my heart around," she sang as she came through the kitchen door.

Once inside, Angela was stumped. She didn't want to go upstairs. She didn't want to see her husband right now. And she was wired. She was reasonably pissed, but she also wasn't feeling very reasonable. We could use some space. Hmm…I guess I could work. Plenty of that to do…but I don't want to. Biting her lip, she went into the living room and checked out her bookcase. I'm feeling a little Jane-Austen-y. She ran her fingers over the leather volumes, and stopped on Sense and Sensibility. She smiled. Oh, yes.

Angela snuggled under a throw blanket on the couch, and started to read. When she and her book club friends had read it at Harvard, she'd identified heavily with Elinor. Having lost her father, and trying to be responsible and level headed for a family that needed her, it came naturally. But as the clock spun past 3, she started feeling more drawn to Marianne, the girl with the reckless passion, and an eye for romance. She just wanted to live and be free. She didn't know.

"You coming to bed anytime soon?" Michael's voice popped her imagination.

Regaining her wits, Angela's eyes narrowed, and slowly turned up from her book. "I wasn't planning on it, no."

"What's with you?"

Angela could feel the rage bubble up in her chest, and she stood to give it room. "What's with me? What's with you?" At the annoyed blankness on his face, she blurted out, "Do you have any idea what you did to me tonight?" A tear escaped with her fury.

"What are you talking about?"

She kept her glare and her distance, not sure if his ignorance was contrived. "Upstairs. Earlier. Why did you get all creepy and close like that?" She was shaking again, and couldn't stop it.

He rolled his eyes, and stepped toward her. "Oh, come on, Angela. You're the one who was being mean. I was just saying that hurt. And I was surprised you let it out, too."

She was starting to feel confused, as she often did recounting things with him. She shook her head a little. "What-? That I let what out?"

"That bitter bitchiness you hide so well. You keep trying to put on this show that everything's fine, and you really do want me to be happy and do what I love to do. But you don't. You still have these expectations of me, and you're usually secretly tucking away all this hate. But you let it out tonight. I was surprised you went there." Angela tried to keep standing, taking in his perspective, but it was getting boggling. "It may surprise you that I have a few resentments of my own, sweetheart, and if you want to tango, we can."

Her eyes shot up at him. "Stop that."

His confusion looked disgusted, "Stop what?"

"Calling me sweetheart and honey when you're being mean."

"A. I'm not being 'mean', I'm telling you the truth. B. How does it feel to have someone act like things are kosher when they aren't?"

"The balance of power here is not level. You're almost twice my size!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

Angela stood shaking, wondering if she should've given him those cards. After a beat or two, he slowly nodded backward in realization. "I wasn't going to hurt you, Angela. If I were going to do that, I would've a long time ago." He eyed her as he turned toward the stairs, and went to bed.

She stared after him, wishing the shaking could leave as easily.


The next morning, Michael gently jostled Angela's shoulder. She flinched, and sucked in her breath.

"Oh, come on, really? That's how it's going to be?" It was almost a whine.

Angela's head hurt. Did we really just pause the argument? Ugh! She rolled into the pillows of the couch. Not long enough.

"Angela," he said impatiently.

She wished she could blame her foggy headache on a hangover, but she hadn't had a drop. This was emotions, and sleep deprivation due to emotions. That didn't feel good. It felt really crappy, actually – a quintessential lack of control. She felt exposed, and squinted her eyes, shoving her face farther into the pillows.

Michael sat down on the puffy blue chair next to her, and spoke softer. "Angela, are you ever going to talk to me?"

I can't believe I'm reduced to this. She started to cry silently to herself. I'm so confused. He sounds like he cares, again. Which is the front? – the mean because he's hurt, or the nice because he's mean? Or both? She squinted her eyes tighter, and her headache got worse.

Michael stood slowly, and took a tentative step toward her. He reached down to softly rub her arm, and a cry escaped her mouth. He drew back instantly. "Angela, seriously. Please, stop." He sounded worried. "I'm not going to hurt you." She held herself tightly, still facing the pillows, trying to hold in her crying. Michael got down on his knees crawled up next to her. "Angela, I mean it... Last night…I just meant you drive me crazy. You know that. But that was my point, I'm obviously not going to hurt you. Please don't twist what I'm saying," he pleaded.

It all sounded like the best way to smooth over last night. I was terrified. But what if it didn't really happen like she thought? What if it was just a misunderstanding? That would be so much better. Maybe I was just overreacting. It felt like in an impossible climb upward, she was given a chute to slide down. She never wanted to believe anything so much in her life.

Her breathing staggered slower, and she turned her blotchy face with smeared smoky eyes toward him.

"Oh, baby," he brought his hand slowly up to her cheek, and kissed the other side of her face. He pulled back to look at her, and another shuddered breath came out. His face twisted in sadness, and she started to cry again. He understands. The feeling was both good and bad, and she could finally just be sad. She didn't have to validate anything. She cried harder, and he leaned down to kiss her softly. She felt like he was pulling her up from a fall, a hideous, nasty fall. He doesn't want to hurt me. She kept her eyes shut to keep out more of the rogue eye makeup that was already stinging, and found his mouth blindly.


September 1981 – Fairfield, CT

Angela felt snacky. It was 8:55, and she'd be going to bed within the hour, but she still wanted something. Something salty and crunchy…something I can nibble on for a while as I finish this graph… She was trying to focus, but all she could think about was munching on something. She knew she wasn't hungry, and she'd waited over half an hour, hoping it would pass. Nope. She left the office, and walked quickly to the kitchen. Michael was reading the paper on the couch, and Jonathan was playing with dinosaur toys by the coffee table. She bypassed both without a word, and went through the swinging door. With her hands on her hips, she looked in the cupboards. We really need better snacks. I need Carwen. Angela smiled thinking about her dear friend. I hope she's happy. She helped me through a lot of hard times - and she made the best food. Angela had been thinking about food a lot recently. Hmm… she spotted a box of Cracker Jacks, and scurried it back to the office.


The next morning, Angela was getting ready for work, and her slacks felt small as she pulled them up her thighs. She could still button them, but barely. Shame settled down on top of her, and she forced her chin up. Looking in the mirror, she saw the overweight teenager she thought she'd left behind long ago. Her brows dipped up. I can't go through that again. She started to feel hunted, and suddenly insecurity had a new name. Michael. She shut her eyes forcing back thoughts of possible rejection. Breathing out a quick puff of air, Angela regrouped. No. I'm just going to watch it. It'll be okay. She pulled on a sweater over her blouse. There. Hides everything.

Angela got through the day, often successfully redirecting thoughts back to her work. For dinner, she picked up a giant chef's salad. She noticed Michael watching her as she used the tongs to thread through the contents, leaving the deli ham and egg yolks in the bowl.

"You aren't hungry?"

"Uh, no, not really."

His eyebrows went up and down, but spooned a sizeable portion of blue cheese into his bowl. Angela looked at it for an extra second, then refocused on her own naked vegetables. They finished their dinner, and Angela didn't need to wait long before heading to the gym. She ran an extra half mile, promising herself to do another quarter mile longer tomorrow. The day after she'd be running an extra mile. Pleased with her plan, she trotted to the showers.

Angela was spent, but no longer snacky. She actually felt legitimate hunger pangs, and smiled at not feeling like indulging them. Back on track, she smiled.

She woke thinking about Tiessenau Mel. Not again. Angela wanted to cry. She, again, got through the day, forcing herself to eat things she didn't like. At least I won't overeat.

On the train home, she squinted out the window. This isn't how I did it before. What did I do? She'd been so distracted that day, she'd almost missed a regular meeting. Peterson had smirked when she'd slid in just as Paxton had closed the boardroom door. This isn't working. She rubbed her hand on her forehead.

"Are you okay?" Michael asked.

"Yeah." She smiled over at him. He'd been really great the last couple of weeks.

"Hey, what do you say we skip our workouts tonight, take Jonathan to the park, wear him out, and head to bed early?"

The thought of skipping her workout, regardless of whatever cardio would ensue, scared her a bit - but not as much as the thought of Michael seeing her naked. She looked down at his streamlined body. Why is this so hard?

He looked a little impatient. "Alright. Something's up. What is it?"

Angela retreated into herself, and quickly shook her head and smiled. "Really. It's nothing. That sounds great." She leaned in, and gave him a long, very interested kiss.

He groaned quietly, and then whispered, "Oh, why do we have to be in public right now?"

Angela giggled softly. If he's noticed, he's not dissuaded.


Angela closed her bedroom door, and leaned against the front of it. She took deep breaths. She'd never been that distracted during sex. All she could think about was food.


A/N: Thank you so much, stayathomemum, for giving me the idea of Angela's returning food addiction. I'm very grateful for all the help. You're all making this a much richer story!