No-one in my family will admit that my sister has an eating disorder. It’s just how things are with us, I think. Once I had a therapist ask who I’d phone in a crisis – I like that, “crisis”, that little verbal sleight-of-hand that both covers and implies all the falling apart, bullet in glass, vomit and blood awfulness that a crisis actually involves. I said I’d phone the Samaritans.
I’m at work, and my boss is making tranny jokes again. She’s sitting at the bar, drunk, and over the general commotion of a busy restaurant, I keep catching fragments of her conversation. Stray phrases drift over to the corner where I stand, polishing the cutlery – comments about chicks with dicks, about men in dresses, about traps, about trannies.