Her:

Whenever she wakes up, as the sun shines on her face and city horns make speedy travels to her eardrums, she shuffles through the upper east side lobby of her building and makes her way up the block to the peach colored front of her favorite cafe: Sant Ambroeus. She opens the door as just another fabulous woman makes her way out to the street, black sunglass covered eyes and white paper cup in hand. She instantly feels cold nerves racking up sweat in her hands. “She looks amazing,” she says to herself, “but clothes like that look good on just about everyone who’s skinny.” Look, here’s the thing. She knows she’s down bad, she has been playing this game for a long time now, but there’s no going back. She’s too far gone, too far into the game of skinniness she has worked so hard to win, and she finally has. She’s not throwing that away. 

She enters the shop as warm, nutty smells greet her nostrils. The Mexican woman who always works the register greets her with a loving smile as the arrays of carefully selected sandwiches and cakes, purposely displayed like million dollar shoes in a department store, try their best efforts at seduction. Temptation arises in the form loud rumbles coming from the depths of her stomach, crying for help. She won’t lie, on a day like today she would not need too much persuasion to succumb to her stomach’s desires, but she is strong enough to say no. So she does just that: when the sweet woman asks for her order, the only words that leave her mouth are “a small warm latte with almond milk please.”
Teardrops start rolling down her cheeks as she hears her words. She knows it's wrong, she knows she shouldn't use coffee as a tool for doing nothing but worsening her condition, a sadist fulfillment. But that’s what Sant Ambroeus is, a devilish haven. A place for satiating her hunger in the prettiest way possible.