Turn 99 of 228

Text Diane about what to post next while the numbers are hot. She suggests live streaming the entire weekend celebration. You agree. Thankfully its a long weekend. No work until next Wednesday

The phone is on the belly and the numbers are still moving — 863 subscribers, the view count on the twerking video past 600 now, the likes past 400. Lena refreshes. 871. The curve is steepening. She refreshes again. 879. The algorithm is pushing the video into feeds that have never seen her face or her belly or her stretch marks or her yellow nails, and those feeds are responding. The numbers look like the branch numbers — one direction, accelerating, the gap widening every time she checks. She opens the text thread with Diane.

"The numbers are still hot. 879 and climbing. What do we post next."

Diane is on the floor. The phone buzzes on her belly. The beard shifts. The reply comes in eight seconds.

"Live stream. The whole weekend. Marcus is bringing food and weed and alcohol. The office is already destroyed. Carl can come. The subscribers want to see what the body does when it's not performing. Show them what it does when it's just living."

Lena reads it twice. The yellow nail taps the screen. The idea is big and simple and the numbers are hot and the weekend is long and the office is already a stage. She types back.

"Yes. Starting tonight. Marcus is five minutes out. Carl should come too."

Diane's reply is fast. "Carl's on his way. He already saw the video. He's been laughing since. He said he'll bring his own food. I told him the office is already destroyed so don't bring anything that needs to stay clean."

Lena laughs. The belly shakes. The chair groans. The phone falls against the belly and the screen is bright and the numbers are climbing and the plan is real — a live stream, the whole weekend, four enormous naked unwashed bodies in a destroyed office eating and drinking and smoking and being what they are. She opens the calendar app. The holiday weekend is marked in red — Memorial Day. Monday off. The company observes it. Tuesday is a flex day — the Garfield branch schedule, the one Diane set up months ago, the one that gives them alternating Tuesdays because the branch numbers justify it. No work until Wednesday. Four full days. The live stream could run for ninety-six hours if the bodies hold and the WiFi holds and the food holds and Marcus brought twice what she asked for.

Marcus texts again. "Pulling into the parking lot now. Two bags of food, a case of beer, a bottle of whiskey, and a quarter ounce of pre-rolls. Also brought the good gummies. Where's the door."

Lena stands. The chair exhales. The belly settles on the thighs and the thighs settle on the knees and the yellow toenails click on the carpet as she walks to the door. The hallway is empty. The building is empty. The afternoon light is gold through the window at the end of the corridor. She unlocks the office door and the smell hits her — the smell of Wednesday and Thursday and Friday, the smell of the carpet and the corner and the two of them, thick and warm and real. Marcus is in the lobby. She can hear the elevator. The bags rustle. The beer clinks. The doors open and 360 pounds of naked unwashed skin and beard and belly and long yellow nails steps into the hallway carrying twice what she asked for and the afternoon is gold and the weekend is here and the live stream starts tonight and the numbers are climbing and the wish hums under everything.