Control

sept

Something doesn't feel right this morning.

I'm getting ready for work, the third pre-planned outfit of the week resting comfortably on my frame. I'm clad in gingham pants with a loose white short-sleeve top and I look fine, I feel fine, everything is fine.

But something is off.

I leave the house through the kitchen, eyes scanning over the oven and the stove to ensure that they're turned off.

I lock the front door behind me, walking over to my car.

I open the car door and sit inside, closing it shut.

It's not right.

I open the car door again, step out, wait a second, sit back inside and close the door behind me.

It's not right.

I repeat the process five more times, going through the motions until I feel just right.

But as I prepare to turn off the hand brake and place my foot on the accelerator, I realise something.

You didn't check the stove properly.

Cursing, I run back inside the house, racing towards the kitchen and checking the stove and oven until I'm sure that they're off.

I sigh in relief when I notice that everything is fine, and so I walk back out of the house, lock the door behind me, stroll towards my car, open the driver's door, sit inside and then open and close the door another six times until I feel just right.

I adjust my hands on the wheel, inhale dramatically and prepare to drive off.

You need to check the stove again.

My fingers shake on the wheel, breath quivering as I exhale.

Thank goodness I leave for work an hour early every morning because I end up checking the stove another six times, opening and closing my car door seven times in between every check.

***

After my day at work, something still feels off.

I drive home in quiet contemplation, logically telling myself that nothing is wrong.

I walk into my house determined to forget about this feeling I've had all day, convinced that I'm fine and that everything is fine and I'm just overreacting, feeling weird for no reason.

And then I see the pastries on the kitchen counter.

They're from the French bakery that my mother loves. She probably forgot to put them in the cupboard when she bought them during her lunch break as she usually does, a place I never look.

I stare at them, feet planted on the spot.

Immediately, I'm draped in a feeling of hunger, the yoghurt and salad I've eaten today suddenly insufficient, leaving me craving the sweet treats. But if I want the dinner and soup I was planning for, a single pastry would be one too many.

But I'm so hungry.

The pastries glare at me, the French delicacies oh-so-tempting.

So hungry.

I swallow the dry feeling of my mouth that is desperate for some sugar.

So hungry.

The moment my foot steps towards the pastries, I stop myself. I've already gone too far and need to exert some control before I eat a pastry, and then another and one more because I'm just so hungry.