Turn 121 of 228

Step inside and sit beside Marcus and ask im how is day was. Then show te results from Dr. Reeves. Elope with Marcus on Friday after work with Diane and Carl as your Maid of Honor, Best Man, and witnesses

Lena steps through the doorframe. The belly catches for a moment — 820 pounds is wider than most doorframes were built for — and then she's through, the apartment air warm and thick around her, the familiar smell of old food and unwashed bodies and the couch that has held them both for months. She crosses to the couch. The floor creaks under each step, the yellow toenails clicking on the tile where the carpet has worn through, and she lowers herself down beside Marcus. The couch protests — a deep wooden groan, the sound of springs that gave up their structural opinions weeks ago. 820 and 530 pounds on the same piece of furniture. The couch has earned its retirement.

Marcus shifts to make room. His belly presses against hers — warm, soft, the matted body hair tangling where they meet. He picks the controller back up but doesn't resume the game. The screen flashes paused colors across both their faces.

"How was your day?" Lena asks. The words are easy. The yellow nails rest on the curve of her belly where it pools onto her thighs and spills toward his.

"Same," Marcus says. The beard moves. The yellow teeth show in something that's almost a smile.

"Carl came over around noon. We played for three hours. He left to get food. Came back with four bags of tacos. We ate all of them." He pauses. The controller rests on his belly.

"Then he went home. Then you came back. That's the day." His shoulder is warm against hers. The apartment hums — not the wish-hum, just the old refrigerator and the fan in the bathroom that never turns off and the building breathing through its walls.

Lena holds up her phone. The screen is still greasy from birthday cake but the Dr. Reeves results are there — the photos of the notebook pages, the bloodwork printout, the numbers she typed into her notes app with yellow nails clicking the glass. Marcus takes the phone. His yellow nails are thicker than hers, the curves more pronounced, and he scrolls slowly through the images. Blood pressure 120/78. Heart rate 61. A1C 5.2. Inflammatory markers lower than July. He scrolls back to February's numbers. Then to March. Then to June. Six months of data. Six months of numbers that don't move the wrong direction.

"You're healthier than me," Marcus says. The beard splits. The almost-smile becomes an actual smile — wide, real, the yellow teeth catching the screen light.

"You're eight hundred and twenty pounds and you're healthier than me and I'm five hundred and thirty." He hands the phone back.

"That's insane. That's actually insane." The controller is forgotten on his belly. He turns to face her — 530 pounds shifting, the couch groaning again, the belly pressing harder against hers.

"Friday," he says. "You said Friday. Let's do it Friday. City hall. Diane and Carl. No ceremony. No planning. Just us."

Friday comes the way Fridays come now — slow and warm and full of food. Lena works from her locked office in the morning, naked at the desk, the belly pooling on her thighs, the yellow nails finishing three reports before lunch. Diane knocks at noon. 710 pounds in the doorframe, the beard thicker than August, the stretch marks catching the fluorescent light. She's carrying a bag. Inside the bag is something she doesn't show yet.

"Ready?" she says. The voice is the underneath voice. Carl is in the hallway behind her — 505 pounds, bearded, barefoot, the body filling the corridor. He nods once.

City hall is twelve blocks. The four of them walk barefoot through the August afternoon — 820 and 710 and 530 and 505 pounds of naked, unwashed flesh on the sidewalk, the yellow toenails clicking, the bellies swinging, the people on the street looking and the four of them not looking back. The clerk's office is small. The clerk is young and professional and her face goes through two expressions before settling on the third — the one that says *I am going to do my job and I am not going to ask questions.* Diane stands beside Lena. The beard is lifted. The brown eyes are bright. Carl stands beside Marcus. The four of them fill the small room. The clerk reads the vows. Lena says yes. Marcus says yes. The pen is offered. Lena signs with yellow nails. Marcus signs with yellow nails. Diane signs as witness. Carl signs as witness. The paper is stamped. The paper is real.

Diane reaches into the bag. She pulls out two rings — plain bands, tarnished silver, bought from the street vendor outside the dispensary three blocks from the office. She hands one to Lena. She hands one to Marcus. The rings are warm from Diane's palm. Lena slides hers on. The yellow nail catches the fluorescent light. Marcus slides his on. The metal disappears into the flesh of his thick finger. The four of them stand in the clerk's office — married, witnessed, barefoot, naked, unwashed, the rings on their fingers and the yellow nails and the beards and the bodies and the hum singing underneath everything. The hum has never been wrong.