It was at the supermarket, and before you ask, yes – I’m almost certain I was sane before I went in. In the frozen section, where ice creams nestled together behind the transparent door, I stopped – transfixed by the colours and patterns dancing before me. I reached for them, but was prevented by the cruel, cold glass.
So I slowly took the handle in my trembling hand, and pulled gently.
I couldn’t focus. I hovered over one, indecision pulling at my very fibre. They were all calling to me, their voices soft and coaxing: “You know you want me” and, “I’m so tasty”. Even the low sugar, skim milk ones clamoured for my attention.
And that’s when it happened.
My husband, kind, gentle soul that he is, tapped my shoulder and said:
You don’t need that.
Pupils dilated, teeth bared, I rounded on him. “I don’t need it? I don’t need it?” My voice rose an octave. “Are you serious?”
And then – the dreaded question: “Are you calling me fat?”
There was silence as he goggled at me. His eyes flicked to the exit. Ten seconds – then twenty – passed in silence but for the humming of the still open freezer.
And then he smiled. “No, I mean, you just need this.” He reached behind me and plucked a box from the freezer.