Turn 83 of 228

Tell her you mean it, schedule the Henderson visit. Then suggest all four of you go to the Charleswood next Saturday. All of you piss and shit where you are while eating and getting drunk and high. Post about night on OnlyFans. Marcus and I pass out on floor after gaming all night, both of us never lose.

Diane sits back and the couch groans and the beer is in her hand and the beard is dark with foam and the belly is round and heavy on her thighs. The room smells like four unwashed bodies and takeout and beer and the evening light is going gold through the window. Carl is on the floor beside Marcus, eating lo mein from the container with his fingers, the grease running down his wrist and into the dark hair on his forearm. Marcus is eating too — egg rolls, three at once, the crumbs falling on his belly — and the controller is on the coffee table and the game is paused.

"I mean it," Lena says. "Schedule it. Henderson comes here. He sees the office. He sees the carpet. He sees me. He sees Carl. He sees all of it. And then he sees the numbers. Because the numbers are the point, Diane. The numbers are why we're here."

Diane drinks. The beer is cold and the apartment is warm and the four of them are large and the couch is struggling and the floor is struggling and the smell is thick.

"Tuesday," Diane says. "I'll set it for Tuesday. He'll bring two people from corporate. They'll expect a conference room and a slideshow." She smiles — the first real smile Lena has seen on her face all week, the beard parting, the teeth yellow, the eyes warm.

"They'll get the office."

"Good," Lena says. "Now — Saturday. All four of us. Charleswood. Row seven."

Marcus looks up from the egg rolls. "The theater?"

"Every Saturday," Lena says. "Diane and I have been going for weeks. We eat, we drink, we smoke, we watch something good. We don't get up. We don't leave the row."

Carl wipes his fingers on his belly and the grease shines on the skin and the body hair is matted with it and he doesn't care.

"What do you watch?"

"Whatever's playing. Last week was a comedy about a zoo. We laughed so hard we pissed ourselves."

"In the seats?"

"In the seats."

Carl looks at Diane. Diane looks at Carl. The look lasts three seconds and then Carl reaches for a beer and opens it and drinks and says, "What time?"

Saturday comes. The four of them walk to the Charleswood at seven — barefoot, naked, four bodies on the sidewalk, the toenails clicking in staggered rhythm on the concrete. Marcus carries a bag of burgers and fries. Carl carries a twelve-pack of beer and a bag of weed. Diane carries donuts and whiskey. Lena carries her phone and nothing else. The night is cold and the skin prickles and the bellies hang and the bodies are warm underneath and the streetlights are orange and the people they pass look and look away and the four of them walk through the lobby and the ticket clerk doesn't look up and row seven is theirs.

The film is a heist comedy — a crew of incompetent thieves robbing a museum and everything that can go wrong does. Lena laughs first. Then Marcus. Then Carl. Then Diane — the full laugh, the unmanaged one, the beard open, the belly shaking. The burgers are gone by the second act and the fries are cold and the beer is warm and the pre-roll is burning between them and the seats are soaked — all four of them, all four seats, the piss coming when it comes, the warmth spreading, the carpet dark beneath. Carl shits in the aisle during the third act without standing up — he just shifts forward and lets go and the sound is loud and the smell rises and Marcus does the same thirty seconds later and Diane and Lena follow and the four of them are laughing and the screen is bright and the theater is theirs and the smell is layered and the seats are warm and the night is long.

Lena films it. Not the film — the four of them. The bare feet on the sticky carpet, the long yellow toenails, the bellies in the dim light, the beer cans on the armrests, the grease on the fingers, the stained seats. She posts it to OnlyFans without a caption and the likes climb in the dark. The film ends and the credits roll and the four of them sit in the wrecked theater and don't move and the lights come up and the seats are ruined and the carpet is ruined and the air is thick and Diane says, "Same time next week" and Lena says, "Same time next week" and Carl says, "Same time next week" and Marcus says, "Same time next week."

They walk home and the apartment fills — four bodies, the couch and the floor, the food and the beer and the weed — and Marcus turns on the console and Carl pulls up a chair — not a chair, the floor, beside Marcus — and the two of them play ranked and Lena and Diane are on the couch and the TV is on and the game is on and the matches load and Marcus and Carl play and they win. They win again. They win again. The rank climbs and the yellow nails tap the controllers and the bellies rest on the floor and the beers are open and the weed is burning and the matches blur — win, win, win — and the two of them don't lose. Not once. The coordination is instant and silent and the teamwork is unconscious and the screen flashes victory and victory and victory and the apartment is warm and the four of them are warm and the night is long and the bodies are heavy and the controllers are warm and the wins stack and the food is gone and the beer is gone and the weed is cashed and the screen is the only light and the two of them play until the floor holds them and the bellies rise and fall and the apartment is quiet and the night ends the way the night ends — with everyone exactly where they fell.