The Boyfriend had come to watch my last performance. We were walking to his car in the rain, me with my black open-toed high heels on, because I wear them for "concert dress." I want to cry because I hate it when my feet are wet, and I have only soaked them both further by stomping in a puddle, waiting impatiently for him to open the door. We get in the car -- I frown at our black rain-resistant jackets and leather interior.

He turns on the heater, sending warm blasts of air towards our faces, also tackling the foggy windshield. I sent the heat to our feet instead. I slip my shoes off and slouch in my seat, letting my toes dry.

He takes my hand. "You have very strong fingers. They're thin. Articulate. My fingers are fat." They're not fat. "I can see your feet." I know. "Your feet are skinny too, and so are your toes. You're kind of a skinny person all around, in a way."

"You knew you should have stopped saying that right when you started," I say. A skinny person all around? I picture a measuring tape all around my waist.

"Well, no. You do have thin fingers, and feet, and toes. And your calves are skinny. At least I think they are."

This made me think of a time when my mom mentioned that I probably am built as a thinner person, but I have never been. I'm not fat, not obese. I'm overweight, I know, but I have always relatively held the same weight.