Matching Cutlery.

Me. Her.
Uncomfortable leather chairs.
"Close your eyes. Picture your future. Your family. Your relationships. Tell me what you see."
My vision was coated by the blackness from the inside of my eyelids for a few moments; And then I
saw it.
I was neurotic, my face pulled over my skull, rushing around a
sun-lit back yard whilst my husband finished cooking chicken on the barbeque.
I was dedicated to my work, and my husband to his. There where two miniature versions
of me sitting at our outdoor table, each holding a knife and fork.
We had matching cutlery. The plates matched the dishes and the dishes matched the cups,
and the knifes and forks caught the right amount of sun; letting the vibrant silver 
reflect light off the glass
table.
My husband hadn’t touched me in months, and I didn’t care.
My children went to school with obsessive compulsive lunches, each piece of food cut into four, placed
into their own individual slots inside of their lunch bags.
They listened to me choke and cough after meals in the bathroom.
Seeing the silhouette of a monster at work through the crack in
the door, crouching over the toilet.
I ignored all of this. I only cared about the matching cutlery.
"Is the eating disorder still there?"
I opened my eyes. The outdoor dinner table and almost-cooked chicken where gone.
"Yes."
"Is it active?"

A squeak of a leather chair.
"Yes."
Wrong answer.