Don't look at me

I was in New Orleans, leaving a McDonalds on Canal Street.  It was large and busy, located on the border of the business and entertainment districts, and half-filled with clearly poor or homeless people.  My parents had just eaten lunch; an angus wrap for my mom, a Big Mac and fries for my dad.  I ate nothing.  My blood sugar was low, my body felt weak, I hardly had the energy to speak.  But they wanted to go to McDonald's, of all places, a place where there was not one thing on the menu I would eat.  As they threw away their wrappers and we edged around the crowd towards the exit, we passed a table of women eating their lunch.  I instinctually averted my gaze, but I could feel their eyes on me.  When I was a few feet away I heard one comment in a half-whisper, "that girl is so thin!". What her connotation behind this was, I don't know.  She sounded shocked above all else, not necessarily condescending or jealous.  But I turned around nonetheless.  I saw all five of the women at the table looking at me and I fixed my gaze on the one who had spoken.  For two seconds I locked eyes with her, packing as much venom into my nonverbal conveyance as possible, before I turned slowly towards the door and walked out of the restaurant. 

And people can't understand why I hate going out in public.