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Eat on the couch and smoke and the evening go where it goes. Periodically check the phone and see what Diane sent. She sent a video of her pissing in her office.

Lena carries the bags to the couch and drops them and the cushions sink under her weight — 313 pounds settling into the stained fabric, the belly spreading across her thighs, the breasts resting heavy and wide. She opens the vodka and the Oreos and the chips and the gummy worms and the donuts and arranges them on the couch beside her, on the cushions, on the armrest, wherever there's space. The TV is off. She doesn't turn it on. The phone is on the coffee table and she lights the first bowl and the smoke rises and the apartment is warm and the smell is thick and the food is there and the evening is long.

The first check comes after two Oreos and a shot of vodka and three hits. She picks up the phone and the thread with Diane is open and there's a message: I did it. Just the two words. Sent at 5:47 PM. Below it: I'm sitting in it right now. The chair is warm. Below that: I'm not cleaning it up. Lena types back: good. Diane: it smelled like the apartment. Like yours. Lena sets the phone down and eats another Oreo and the weed is good and the vodka is warm and the couch holds her and the evening stretches.

She eats half the chips and a handful of gummy worms and the bowl is cashed and she packs another and the smoke fills the apartment and the light through the window turns gold and then orange and then dark. The phone buzzes at 7:15 and she picks it up and Diane has sent a video. The thumbnail is dark — her office, the desk, the window — and Lena presses play. The video is fifteen seconds. Diane is sitting in her chair and the camera is on the desk, angled down, and her bare legs are spread and the belly is visible at the top of the frame and the stream is visible in the center. The piss hits the carpet and the sound is clear — the steady hiss of it, the splash on the floor — and Diane's feet are in the frame, dirty soles, long yellow toenails curling past the tips, and the stream is long and heavy and it pools on the carpet and spreads and the chair creaks and the video ends.

Lena watches it twice. The second time she notices the stretch marks catching the light from the desk lamp, the way the belly shifts when the stream starts, the way Diane's toes curl against the carpet. She types: you sent it. Diane: I sent it. Lena: how did it feel. Diane: like the bench. like the park. like the elevator. like everything is just — where I am. Lena types: send more. Diane: maybe. The thread goes quiet and Lena sets the phone on the coffee table and the screen dims and the apartment is dark now and the food is half gone and the weed is good and the vodka is warm and she eats a donut and the crumbs fall on her belly and the couch is warm and the evening continues.

The phone buzzes again at 9:30 and it's not Diane — it's OnlyFans. The bench photo has sixty-seven likes and eleven comments. The nail photos have forty-two and twenty-eight. She scrolls the comments without reacting — the same words, the same patterns, the subscribers who want more, the ones who are watching, the ones who stopped pretending. She closes the app and opens Diane's thread and there's nothing new. Just the video. Just the messages. She watches the video a third time and the piss is steady and the carpet is dark and the toes curl and the belly shifts and the stretch marks catch the light and the video ends and she sets the phone down and eats another donut and the vodka is empty and the weed is cashed and the apartment is dark and the body is warm and the wish hums and the night is long and the phone is quiet and the evening goes where it goes.