Memoirs of a Fat Girl

The whole drive back, I was high with the magic of Jerash. Ancient city. Julius Caesar. Two million camels. Art. Marco.

It had been a glorious day, especially when I'd pulled Marco into one of Adham's secret Jerash hideaways, and unabashedly kissed him. We'd been kissing ever since. Nah, fooled you again.

That didn't happen, but for the first time since his arrival I'd been completely relaxed and at ease with everything. When he took a picture of smiling me with the Temple of Artemis in the background. When he helped me off a high, crumbling wall. When he held my hand.

It was a laid back atmosphere in the apartment, with James and Raj watching TV and enjoying a light snack of breadsticks and jarred cheeese. I'd changed into something a "little more comfortable"; striped pajama pants and a blue soccer tee. Marco was on the balcony smoking a cigarette, and I went out to join him.

I put my arms up on the railing and rested my chin in my hands. It was a beautiful night. Clear, starry. A sheikh's calm, steady voice recited the fifth and final prayer of the day. It was Marco's last night here, and I didn't want him to go home remembering me the way I had been. So without looking at him I said, "I'm sorry, Marco."

He didn't say anything, but I knew he understood. Marco always understands. He edged over closer, put his arm around me, and we were like that for a long time.

We talked about a lot of things on that balcony. Actually, Marco did a lot of talking, and I did most of the listening. And what he mostly talked about was... me. Marco's known me forever, remember? My career. My writing. My finances, my family, my love life. We even talked about Jess, and he gave me the smallest and best bit of advice anyone has given me so far. "If you see anything with him, you have to go for it. You have to. If nothing is there, you have to be brave."

The hell of the last few months came down on me when he said that, and even though I didn't want to, I started to cry. I mostly don't want to cry because I don't want people to see me crying, and I did my best to hide it. A lot of elements were on my side: dark night, long hair, and when I cry I start off really quietly. Until my nose kicks in. A few sniffles later, he gathered me up into his arms to let me finish what I'd started.

I don't know how long we were like that for, a few minutes perhaps. The phone rang inside and startled, I pulled away, completely embarrassed for breaking down the way that I had. As you can see, I embarrass myself a lot. Around Marco, it seems I've broken all my own records.

The standard is that when I'm completely humiliated, Marco takes it all in stride. He didn't disappoint. I was looking down to hide my face; he put one hand under my chin and lifted up so we were looking right at each other. Marco wiped away my tears with his thumbs, kissed my nose and quietly said, "Hi, sexy."

Sexy? I almost looked behind me to see if anyone else was there. I didn't feel sexy right now, not in PJ pants, wrinkled shirt, mussy hair and a tear streaked face. In fact, sexy was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Do you know what it's like to believe you're not good enough? To have been thinking for years that you're not pretty enough, or skinny enough, smart or successful enough and most of all, not sexy enough, so much and so often, that you feel you just don't matter anymore?

It consumes you. It consumed me. This is who I have become.

And then, along came Marco. I looked back up at him. There was a huge grin on his face; he wasn't kidding. This man, here on this random balcony in the Middle East, thought I was sexy. And he was serious.

I felt I could fly.