Turn 85 of 228

Order everything — Chinese, pizza, burgers — and let the day decide the game

Diane scrolls. The delivery app fills the screen — restaurant after restaurant, menu after menu — and the four of them are waking and the apartment is warm and the morning is gold and the order builds. Three large pizzas — pepperoni, meat lovers, Hawaiian. Two orders of orange chicken. Two orders of lo mein. Four burgers with fries. Two quarts of hot and sour soup. An order of egg rolls, twelve of them. Two liters of soda. A box of donuts. The total climbs and the salary triples and the number doesn't matter and Diane hits order and the phone says forty-five minutes and she sets it on the belly and the belly holds it.

Carl wakes last. The snoring stops and he rolls over and the beard is dark and the belly is wide and the eyes open and they are green and he doesn't say good morning. He says, "What smells?" and Marcus says, "Us" and Carl nods and reaches for a warm beer on the carpet and opens it and drinks and the foam catches in the beard and the morning is real.

"Four-player," Marcus says. He's sitting up now, the controller in his hand, the screen awake, the console humming.

"We've got Helldivers. We've got It Takes Two. We've got Overcooked." He scrolls through the library and the games pass and the belly rests on his thighs and the yellow nails tap the controller and the options are there.

"Overcooked," Diane says from the couch. The beer is in her hand and the belly is round and the beard is dark.

"I want to see Carl try to manage a kitchen."

"I manage a floor of analysts," Carl says. "I can manage a kitchen."

"You can't manage your own fingernails," Marcus says. The yellow nails curl over the controller and Carl holds up his hands — the nails long, dark, curling — and laughs and the laugh is deep and the belly shakes.

"Neither can you," Carl says.

Lena watches them. The two of them on the floor — Marcus at 360, Carl at 345, the bellies wide, the bodies unwashed, the toenails thick and yellow and curling over the bare feet on the carpet — and they are easy together. The way she and Diane are easy. The way the four of them are easy. The apartment holds them and the morning holds them and the food is coming and the game is coming and the day is long and the phone is on the belly and the OnlyFans count is climbing and the wish hums underneath everything — quiet, steady, the hum that has been there since the bathroom mirror and the wish and the warmth in her stomach.

The food arrives in three trips. The delivery driver knocks twice and Diane opens the door and the driver sees four naked bodies — two on the couch, two on the floor — and the smell hits the hallway and the driver sets the bags on the counter and leaves without speaking and the door closes and the bags are open and the food is everywhere. Pizza on the coffee table. Chinese on the counter. Burgers on the floor. The four of them eat and the controllers are passed and Overcooked loads and the screen splits four ways and the kitchen is on fire and the orders are wrong and Marcus is yelling about the tomatoes and Carl is yelling about the plates and Diane is laughing and Lena is laughing and the tomatoes are burning and the plates are stacking and the score is dropping and the four of them are screaming at each other and the pizza is gone and the orange chicken is gone and the beer is warm and the afternoon is here and the game goes on.