“You know,” Alisha says, “you’re being a little too healthy about this.” Slouched in a coffee-shop armchair, she’s a belly with a head and limbs stuck on as afterthoughts. A kick ripples the stripes of her t-shirt, and her face locks into a grimace. I rattle an ice cube into my mouth and crunch it. The brick in my throat matches the brick in my lower abdomen. I gulp a couple of times before I…