Turn 90 of 228

Text Diane from the floor. She joins you.

The phone is on the belly and the belly is warm and the room is spinning slow and gold and the gummies are deep in her blood now — 150 milligrams sinking through every pound of her — and the whiskey is gone and the wine is gone and the pre-roll is ash in the carpet beside her and the office is smoke and warmth and the body is heavy and the heavy is good. She picks up the phone. The screen swims. She types.

"I'm on the floor."

The message sends. The phone falls back on the belly. Thirty seconds. A minute. The hallway is quiet and the building is quiet and somewhere down the hall Diane is at her desk and the numbers are filed and the beard is dark and the body is 387 pounds and naked and the door is open because Diane doesn't close her door anymore.

The phone buzzes. "Are you okay?"

Lena types with one thumb. The yellow nail taps the glass.

"I'm better than okay. I'm on the carpet. Henderson said keep doing what you're doing. I'm doing what I'm doing. Come do what you're doing on my floor."

She sends it and the words sit on the screen and the room is gold and the ceiling is high and the body is warm and the carpet is stained and the stains are hers. Footsteps in the hallway. Not shoes — bare feet on the carpet, the thick skin and the yellow nails and the sound is soft and heavy and getting closer. The door opens without a knock and Diane fills the frame — 387 pounds, the beard dark, the belly round, the stretch marks catching the fluorescent light, the body hair thick and matted and the smell of her entering the room and joining the smoke and the whiskey and the wine and the carpet.

"You look terrible," Diane says.

"I look like the numbers," Lena says.

Diane steps inside and the carpet is sticky under her bare feet and the door closes behind her and the office is smaller with two bodies in it — 411 and 387, nearly 800 pounds of unwashed skin and warm flesh and the air is thick and the smoke is thick and Diane lowers herself to the floor beside Lena and the wall takes them both and the bellies touch and the thighs press together and the carpet is warm and the floor is warm and the room is theirs.

"You posted," Diane says. The phone is between them, the screen still bright, the OnlyFans post and the climbing notifications.

"I posted."

"You look happy."

"I look drunk."

"Those are the same thing for you."

Lena laughs and the laugh is slow and the belly shakes and the wine bottle rolls on the carpet and the room spins and Diane is warm beside her and the afternoon is gold and the building is quiet and the numbers are filed and the branch is number one and Henderson is gone and the words are still in the air. Keep doing what you're doing. The two of them sit on the stained carpet in the locked office and the smoke clears slow and the light moves slow and the wish hums under everything — under the belly and the floor and the building and the branch and the numbers and the two of them — and the afternoon rides and the phone buzzes and neither of them moves.