Turn 72 of 228

Go back to the office and game after completing your work. But before then tell Diane about the OnlyFans post about her. She doesn't care.

Lena doesn't move from the doorframe. The hallway is quiet and the fluorescent lights hum and Diane's feet are on the desk and the folder is open and Lena says, "I posted about you on OnlyFans." She says it flat. The way you say something when you're not asking permission — when you're giving someone the information because they should have it.

Diane doesn't look up. She turns a page. The chocolate smear on her chin catches the window light and the beard is dark along her jaw and the belly rises and falls and she says, "What did you say."

"Everything," Lena says. "The barefoot Monday. The bra. The hair. The weight. The smell. That you stopped showering. That you stopped performing. That you gave yourself permission." She pauses.

"That the wish gave me permission and you gave yourself permission."

Diane closes the folder. She sets it on the desk beside her bare feet and the toes curl against the wood and the chocolate is on her chin and the stretch marks catch the light and the office is small and warm and smells like her and she looks at Lena and says, "Okay." Not surprised. Not angry. Not performing calm. Just — okay. The word sits in the room the way the smell sits in the room. Present. Unmanaged.

"You don't care," Lena says. Not a question.

"I don't care," Diane says. She picks up the folder and opens it again and her eyes go back to the page and the meeting is over.

"The work is good. The numbers are good. If someone on the internet wants to look at me and think whatever they think — that's their business. I stopped managing what people think about me three weeks ago. I'm not going to start again because a camera exists." She turns the page. The belly shifts and the breasts shift and the bare feet flex on the desk and she says, "Close the door on your way out. I have the Henderson reply to draft."

Lena pushes off the doorframe and her body swings — 313 pounds of belly and breast and thigh — and she steps into the hallway and pulls the door closed and the smell stays behind it and the hallway is quiet and the fluorescent lights hum. She walks back to her office and the carpet is warm and the door locks behind her and the laptop is on the floor where she left it and the queue is clear and the controller is where she dropped it and the vodka is where she left it and the corner is dark and the carpet is stained and the screen fills with the match and she sits and the body settles — the belly spreading across her thighs, the breasts resting heavy and warm, the thighs pressing together — and she plays.

The match is a ranked one and her team is losing and she carries and the controller is warm and the vodka burns and the weed is good and the screen flickers and the hours pass. The morning becomes the afternoon and the afternoon becomes the late afternoon and the queue was cleared at nine-twelve and everything after that is hers. The carpet holds her and the corner holds the piss and the wrappers pile and the bottles line up and the screen flashes victory and defeat and victory again and the building is quiet and Diane is behind her closed door drafting the Henderson reply and the wish hums and Lena's body spreads across the floor and the day continues.