Turn 47 of 228
Walk to the bodega for more food before going home.
Diane walks with her. She doesn't ask where they're going — she just falls into step beside Lena and they walk east on Garfield, two blocks past the Charleswood, and Lena says, "Bodega's open until midnight." Diane says, "I know which one." And Lena looks at her and Diane says, "You've mentioned it. Three or four times. The one on Fifth with the clerk who doesn't talk." Lena says, "He talks. He says have a good night." Diane almost smiles.
They walk four blocks in the quiet. The night has settled into that late-Saturday stillness where the traffic thins and the streetlights hum and the only sounds are their footsteps — Lena's bare feet soft on the concrete, Diane's boots steady beside them. The butter on Lena's skin has gone tacky in the cooling air and she can feel it pulling with each step, the slight tack where her thighs press together, the film across her belly catching the breeze. Her body moves the way it moves now — heavy, slow, deliberate, each step a negotiation between 274 pounds and gravity — and she doesn't think about it. She doesn't think about the people in the cars that pass or the man on the bench across from the laundromat who watches them the whole length of the block. She thinks about Diane walking beside her without asking why.
The bodega is lit the way it's always lit — fluorescent, bright, the kind of light that finds every surface. Lena pushes the door open and the bell rings and the clerk is the same clerk and he looks up and his eyes move across her body — the belly, the breasts, the butter streaked across her skin, the stubble thickening into hair, twelve days of mess layered on her like a second skin — and he looks down at the register. Diane follows her in and stands near the door with her hands in her jacket pockets and watches Lena move through the aisles. She doesn't help. She doesn't comment. She watches the way you watch someone do something they've done a hundred times — the reach for the chips on the top shelf, the way Lena's belly presses against the edge of the shelf as she stretches, the careful navigation of her hips between the narrow aisles.
Lena fills two baskets. Chips, cookies, vodka — two bottles — soda, jerky, donuts, candy, a bag of popcorn that isn't movie popcorn but will do. She sets the baskets on the counter and the clerk scans everything in silence and the total comes up and she pays with her phone and he bags it and the bags crinkle and he says, "Have a good night." Lena says, "You too." She picks up the bags and turns and Diane is still standing by the door and their eyes meet and Diane says, "You want me to walk you home?" and Lena says, "I'm four blocks from here. I've walked further than this naked at three in the morning." Diane says, "I know. I'm not asking because I think you need help with the bags."
They walk the four blocks together and the bags are heavy and Lena's arms are full and her body is full — 274 pounds, butter, mess, the wish humming, the night cool on her skin — and Diane walks beside her and doesn't speak and doesn't need to. They reach the apartment building and Lena stops and turns and Diane is standing on the sidewalk in her leather jacket under the streetlight and she looks like someone who has somewhere to be but isn't going there yet. Lena says, "Next Saturday." Diane says, "Next Saturday. Seven o'clock. I'll pick the film." Lena says, "I'll be there as I am." Diane nods once and turns and walks east and Lena watches her go — the leather jacket catching the light, the steady stride, the figure getting smaller with each block — and then she turns and goes inside and the elevator takes her up and the apartment is dark and the console is waiting and the floor is waiting and the bags are heavy in her arms and the night opens ahead of her like every other night, wide and dark and hers.