My Review of Small Bites

My stomach sinks when I feel his hand on my shoulder.

A year earlier, I had overeaten at my all-time favorite restaurant, Cordelia: pork belly, cauliflower, small bites that insist on being shared. And the burger box as a digestif, because at Cordelia restraint feels performative. The food is too good to stop.

We had a babysitter that night. After we let her go home, a flutter started in my chest. Sudden. Electric. Like the opening act of a heart attack. The kind of sensation that makes you inventory your life in under thirty seconds.

I am a working mother. When my body malfunctions, I triage. Calling an Uber or asking the babysitter to come back felt more indulgent than the small bites I had just enjoyed. I laid down and tried to sleep it off.

The next morning, I felt fine. A fluke, I told myself.

But the flutter returned over the following weeks, only stronger now. Like a dolphin trapped in my ribcage, slamming against bone, stealing air. It happened after meals heavy with flavor. I briefly entertained the idea that my heart was simply dramatic. Eventually I went to my primary care physician and described what I was certain was cardiac decline. She listened calmly.

“That sounds like esophageal spasms.” Harmless. Common. Often triggered by stress. Food included. A cursory EKG. Six weeks of proton pump inhibitors. An endoscopy that confirmed: nothing wrong.

It became, in my mind, a funny story. The time I mistook my esophagus for a failing heart.

So, when I tell it at a work dinner at Cordelia, explaining why I won’t eat the burger box but will absolutely order it for the table because it is transcendent, I expect laughter.

Instead, I feel a hand on my shoulder.

He is a senior figure in our field. We invited him to town. His concern sounds paternal. Measured. Almost tender.

Under different circumstances, it might feel kind.

It doesn’t.

Earlier that morning, after a meeting, he stands, looks me up and down slowly, and says, “I really look forward to spending more time with you, Andy.”

Nothing explicit. Nothing reportable. Just tone stretching longer than language. I shake it off.

Later, I’m waiting for the elevator. Only one works most days, so we line up like commuters stuck in purgatory. A stylish older woman from our floor walks by, reaches out, and grabs my waist. She shakes me lightly. “You are so skinny! I wish I could look like you. So pretty!”

I know it is meant as a compliment.

But I feel every eye in the waiting area shift toward my body.

I fold my arms across myself and stare at the closed doors, newly aware of my physical outline.

At the next meeting, he swivels his chair toward me each time he speaks. Holds my gaze a beat too long. Looking at me for approval or to see my reaction to his comments. I tell myself he values my thoughts. But the elevator moment hums underneath everything. Small bites add up.

That evening, before the hand on the shoulder, we had returned to Cordelia. Five of us. Four women and him. A long table with a bench on one side. I take the bench. He scoots in, choosing the seat beside me, though three chairs wait open across the table. We are closer than necessary.

Throughout dinner, I feel his eyes land and linger, despite sitting next to him and not across. A turned head in the corner of my vision. Nothing overt. Nothing I could circle in red. To lighten the mood, I tell my esophagus story. It doesn’t land.

Before we can leave, he has a story of his own. Something illustrative. Something physical.

“Can I use your arm to demonstrate?”

It feels off. But saying no feels louder than saying yes. No line has technically been crossed. So I extend my arm.

He takes it firmly with both hands. His fingers press and trace along my skin while he explains his point. I recoil internally while maintaining a polite smile, the smile women perfect early, the one that keeps rooms intact even when the walls feel like they are closing in on you. Another small bite.

Eventually I say my arm is tired and politely pull it back.

Outside, several unhoused people approach asking for help. He insists on walking me to my car. Here, finally, I say no, absolutely not.

His Uber arrives. I leave quickly. In my car, the day replays.

Nothing dramatic happened.

No catastrophe. No headline.

Just accumulation. A few small bites here and there.

A hand. A gaze. A waist. An arm.

Each moment harmless on paper.

Together, destabilizing. Too many small bites can lead to gastrointestinal distress.

Esophageal spasms feel like heart attacks but aren’t. The body misreads pressure as emergency.

Or maybe it doesn’t.

I sit in my car and inventory myself the way I did that night after the burger box. Did I invite it? Did I misinterpret it? Am I valued for my work, or for how I look while doing it?

Over and over, I wonder if I belong here at all.

Cordelia remains excellent.

The food is rich. The flavors layered. The burger box still worth ordering.

But I have learned that no matter how small the bites are, they add up.

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