Turn 14 of 228

Post about the confrontation on OnlyFans. Then go home and spend another night indulging. While indulging, text Diane and keep the conversation going

Lena sits on the bus with her bags of food and alcohol balanced on her thighs, the plastic handles cutting into the soft skin, and opens the OnlyFans app. She types fast, thumb smearing the screen with orange dust: *My manager tried to have a conversation about my appearance today. I wore a string bikini to work. She couldn't say anything because my work is better than everyone else's. I farted in her office. Twice. She still didn't write me up.* She attaches the bathroom photos from earlier and hits post. Then she scrolls through the comments on her previous posts, feeling the warmth build as the words stack up — *you're insane, I love it*, *the power of just not caring*, *farting in your manager's office is legendary* — and by the time the bus reaches her stop the post has twelve likes and three new comments.

She walks home barefoot, bags heavy against her hips, the bikini strings digging into flesh that's softer and wider than it was a week ago. The apartment door swings open and the smell hits her — stale beer, old food, the faint sour note of the stains on the couch and the kitchen floor. She doesn't open a window. She drops the bags on the counter, pulls out the vodka, twists the cap, and drinks. Then she lights a joint, pulls the first hit deep, and feels her body loosen. She strips off the bikini and stands naked in the kitchen, belly hanging heavy and full, and rips open a bag of chips.

She finds Diane's number in her work contacts and opens a text. *Hey.* She stares at the screen for a moment, then adds: *I wasn't trying to be hostile earlier. Just honest.* She sets the phone on the counter and takes another pull of vodka and a long drag of the joint and waits. Three minutes pass. The phone buzzes.

*Honest is good,* Diane writes. *I respect that. But Lena, I need you to understand that I'm not your enemy here.*

Lena types back with greasy fingers: *I know you're not. You're the only person who's said anything to me at all.* She hits send and opens a sleeve of powdered donuts and eats two in a row, sugar falling onto her bare chest and belly. She farts — long and loud and unrestrained, the sound echoing off the kitchen tile — and takes a photo of herself standing naked in the kitchen with a donut in one hand and the vodka bottle in the other and posts it to OnlyFans without a caption.

Her phone buzzes again. *That's fair. I've been avoiding a direct conversation because I didn't want to make it formal. But we should talk properly. Not in my office, not with the door open where people can hear.* Lena reads the message twice, feeling something complicated move through her — not arousal, not quite, but something adjacent to it. The attention. The fact that someone is paying attention to the person underneath the bikini and the crumbs and the farts. She types: *I'm 237 pounds and I've never been happier. That's the conversation. Everything else is logistics.*

She eats and drinks and smokes for the next three hours, texting Diane between bites. The conversation drifts — work, the lead position, what it would mean if Lena took it. Diane asks if she's okay and Lena sends a photo of herself on the couch, naked, belly full, surrounded by bags, with the text: *Does this look like not okay?* Diane doesn't respond for fifteen minutes. When she does, it's short: *You're talented, Lena. I don't want to lose you.* Lena reads it four times, takes another hit, and feels the warm haze settle over everything like a blanket. Her hand drifts between her thighs. The phone buzzes once more — Diane, asking if they can talk more tomorrow — and Lena types *yes* and sets the phone on her belly and closes her eyes.

Her body is still growing. She can feel it in the tightness of her skin, the way her thighs press together, the way her belly rests heavier on her lap when she sits. The voice is quiet, satisfied, pulsing gently beneath her ribs. *More,* it says, and she nods without opening her eyes, and the night stretches ahead of her like a warm, dark road with no end.