Turn 3 of 6

Mara asks if you like being fat, which you respond enthusiastically. Of course, why wouldn't anyone? She asks a followup, if she should keep going to the gym, as she's not losing weight and never really wanted to go there. You respond by ordering her the most fattening calorie rich desserts offered and feed her, that's your answer. She excitedly accepts, you tell her she could stand to gain more

Mara's fingers trace the rim of her smoothie cup, and she won't look at you directly.

"Can I ask you something kind of personal?"

"Babe, everything about me is personal and on display." You gesture at yourself — the exposed belly, the stretch-marked thighs spilling over the booth's edge — and laugh.

"Go for it."

"Do you actually... like being fat? Like, genuinely?" She finally meets your eyes, and there's something raw in the question, something that feels bigger than the words themselves.

You sit back against the booth, feeling the vinyl stretch and sigh beneath your weight, and you consider the question with the kind of sincere attention it deserves. Your hands drift to your belly automatically, cupping the warm heavy roll of it, and you smile — not performing, not posing, just smiling because the answer is so obvious it almost makes you giddy.

"Mara, I *love* it. I love every single pound. I love how soft everything is, I love how my body just *takes up space* and doesn't apologize for it. I love that I can rest my arms on my own stomach like it's a shelf." You give your belly a playful pat that sends a slow ripple through your whole midsection.

"Why wouldn't anyone want this? It's like being wrapped in a comforter that's permanently attached to you."

Mara stares at you for a long moment, and her eyes are wet — not sad, exactly, but full of something you can't name. Then she looks down at her own body, at the way her gym clothes dig into the soft flesh at her waist, and she says, almost to herself: "I never actually wanted to go to the gym. I never wanted to lose weight. I just thought I was supposed to."

"Well, you're not," you say, and you mean it with every cell in your enormous, joyful body. You flag down the server with a wave that makes your upper arm wobble delightfully.

"Excuse me? Can we get, um — the chocolate lava cake, the peanut butter cheesecake, the big cookie sundae, and whatever your most ridiculous, most calorie-loaded dessert is? The one that's like a dare?"

The server raises an eyebrow. "The Triple Threat Brownie Boat?"

"That one. Two of them."

Mara's mouth opens, and you watch indecision flicker across her face — the ghost of every diet, every treadmill session she never wanted, every sideways look at the scale. Then something in her shoulders releases. She laughs, a real laugh, startled and free.

"You're insane," she says.

"I'm *inspired,*" you correct her. The first dessert arrives — the chocolate lava cake, oozing dark and warm — and you pick up the fork, scoop up a bite that drips with molten fudge, and hold it out across the table to her.

"Here. This is your answer. You don't need the gym. You need *this.*"

Mara leans forward and takes the bite. Her eyes close, and a sound comes out of her that's almost involuntary — a low, pleased hum that makes you grin so hard your cheeks ache. You feed her another bite, then another, and she accepts each one with growing eagerness, her hands resting on her own soft belly, fingers pressing into the flesh there like she's feeling it for the first time.

"You know what?" you say, scraping the last of the fudge from the plate.

"You could stand to gain more. Like, *way* more. You've got the frame for it."

Mara licks chocolate from her lower lip and looks at you with something that might be the beginning of pure, uncomplicated happiness.

"Yeah?"

"Babe, *yeah.*"