Iophobia

It’s okay, I tell myself. Nothing is going to happen. The words ring true, and yet I can’t bring myself to believe them. The doubt lingers in the wake of the declaration, always.

I feel my hands tremble in my lap as I hide them beneath the table, my fingers tapping an arrhythmic beat against my thigh. The soft cotton of my black dress moves beneath them; I can feel the hem starting to raise above my knee. Thank God for the ivory table cloth covering the otherwise thick wood dining table or else every pervert in this room would be getting a free show. That’s what I should be afraid of, I tell myself sternly. And yet, I don’t give them a second thought. They aren’t the enemy.

I glance down the table and watch the many faces interact with one another. Most of these people I’ve never met, but supposedly they’re all business acquaintances of my father’s. This dinner was a celebration of his winning his latest client’s case in court, and apparently it had been a huge deal. I deliberately ignore any news on social media that pertains to his work, so I really have no idea whom his client was or what he’d been fighting for. I really don’t care.

The man sitting across from me is familiar, but only vaguely so. His short-cut black hair is slicked back with about five pounds of gel that glistens in the dim lighting. His teeth are straight and pearly-white; he’s smiling at the woman sitting next to him. She smiles back, her heavily made-up (and most likely surgically enhanced) face seems to almost crack with the effort. Her eyes glow with interest, not that it wasn’t hard to guess her main goal here. If her face isn’t telling, then the fact that her breasts were practically laying bare on the table’s surface was a big tip-off. Women in my father’s circle are so predictable that I can’t even laugh at it anymore, which is a pity because I could really use a good chuckle right now.

“Are you all right, Isabella?” my mother asks from my left. I glance over at her and smile tightly.

“I’m fine,” I say, but that couldn’t be farther than the truth. There is another part of my father’s social circle that I hate immensely: all the fancy dinner parties. The company is dull, most of the attendees twice my age, but the food is always amazing. That isn’t the problem; It’s what comes before that seems to put me on edge.

Movement on the far side of the room captures my attention. I watch a dozen or so serving attendants flow into the room, each carrying a large covered dish. They take their places along the far walls of the room and set their burdens on top of small tables. One by one, the lids fly off in a showy affair to reveal several white china bowls full of what I am to assume to be a delicious soup.

A small blonde girl with a loose braid falling down her back is serving my part of the table. I watch her as she makes her way to her first charge two seats down the table from myself and set the bowl down in front of the guest. My heart begins to race and my hands turn clammy. What is wrong with me?

A bowl appears in front of the person sitting to my right. I watch them acknowledge the waitress, and my eyes swiftly move back to her. She has already made it back to the other bowls sitting on the large platter and picks up the one she’s supposed to deliver to me. I take a deep breath and turn back to the table. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and the distant murmurings of the other guests. My eyes focus on the table cloth directly in front of me, waiting for the inevitable. Within seconds, a bowl is set before me.

“T-thank you,” I mumble to the girl, my eyes transfixed on the dish. Rich, savory scents float up to my nose, and my stomach growls in response. At least one part of my anatomy is unaffected by the anxiety building up in my chest. Tomato soup has always been one of my favorites, and it doesn’t get any better than when it’s homemade. Chunks of tomato and onion float along the murky red-orange liquid. A green leaf floats in the middle with speckles of other spices dotting all around it. A light coating of grated cheese creates a circle around the leaf, all of it just waiting for me to dig in. I want to, I really do.

My fingers increase their erratic rhythm, the backs of my knuckles grazing the top of the table. I clasp them tightly together before anyone notices. I close my eyes and suck my lips back, clenching them with my teeth. Really, this is getting ridiculous.

Get a hold of yourself, I tell myself sternly. It’s just tomato soup. You love tomato soup. Nothing is going to happen. It’s going to be okay. Just pick up your spoon and take a bite. You can do it. Taking a slow, silent breath, I relax my mouth and slowly open my eyes. They settle on the spoon laying next to my bowl, the napkin still folded neatly below it. I told my hand to reach for it, but it didn’t obey. It just trembled as it held on to its partner.

My eyes move to the person sitting across from me. The young man with the black hair and green tie smiles at the woman sitting next to him as he places his white linen napkin in his lap. I watch him as he reaches for the spoon, envious of how easy it is for him. He says a few words to his companion, but I don’t hear them. I don’t even recognize them as they form on his lips. My eyes are mesmerized by the silver utensil he holds so casually in his right hand. His thumb and forefinger touch ever so gently. Unconsciously, I feel my fingers mimicking his, but they still do not reach for the spoon.

As if in a trance, my eyes follow his spoon as it dips into the steaming liquid, and a thought hits me like a ton of bricks: If he eats his soup and nothing happens, then that means it’s okay. Euphoria washes over me, and my heart starts racing for a different reason. This doesn’t hurt. This is anticipation, not anxiety.

Slowly, I watch him take a bite. His eyes close as if savoring the tastes exploding in his mouth. It makes me all the more jealous of his lack of concern. I know the soup will be delicious, and I want nothing more than to experience it for myself. I have to know first: will it be okay? After a few seconds, I see his Adam’s Apple bob as he swallows. Then, I wait. I watch. Immediately, he dips his spoon back into the soup and takes another hearty bite. And then another. I can see from the corner of my eyes similar actions going on around me with no adverse reactions. Maybe everything is okay. I feel my shoulders begin to relax and my eyes begin to slide back to my own soup.

A sudden movement from across the table distracts me, and I tense again. The man with the green tie drops his spoon suddenly, and his hands reach for his own throat. His mouth is hanging agape as if desperate seeking air to fill his lungs. His eyes go wide, the familiar taint of fear swimming in their depths. A loud choking sound fills my ears. The anxiety cascades over me once more as I realize what’s happening.

“It’s poisoned!” I shout. I jump to my feet and swipe the bowl off of the table. The sound of crashing china rings a lively melody in my ears, a lovely reprieve from the choking sounds the man across the table is making. My breath comes out in quick puffs as I glance down at my handy work. I knew it. I just knew it wasn’t okay!

“Isabella, what in heaven’s name is the matter with you?” My mother’s voice breaks through my revelry, and I glance up at her. Her hand is resting against her chest as she leans away from me in her chair. The silence of the room finally registers in my brain. My soup is still on the floor, the puddle starting to spread beneath the table. My eyebrows drop in confusion. Didn’t she hear what I’d said?

I glance to the man across the table. He holds his spoon suspended between the bowl and his mouth, his eyes wide with surprise. In fact, it seems everyone had been surprised by my outburst as dozens of sets of eyes mirror his shock. I find myself battling my own bafflement. My heart stops beating completely as I realize what I’d just done. He hadn’t been choking. The soup hadn’t been poisoned. My mind has just played a cruel trick on me, and I have no idea what to make of it.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble to no one and hurry out of the room. I hear my mother yell after me, but I ignore her. I need to get out of here. It’s obvious I can’t control this problem I have. I can’t even function in polite society anymore. I run through the house and exit into the cold night. The street is empty, illuminated by the sporadic light posts that dot the area. The full moon illuminates what they do not. I stop and glance up at it, my eyes boring into it. The Man in the Moon appears, makes eye contact with me. I shake my head as tears begin to run down my face. The enormity of my actions this night fall heavily against my shoulders, and I sag beneath its weight.

Desperately, I ask him, “What the hell is wrong with me?”