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The lunch lady of hollow ridge playthrough

Turn 19 of 32

She appears to be in her mid-sixties, standing at 5'3" and weighing around 275 pounds, with a short and stout build. Her body is soft and rounded, featuring heavy arms with gentle fat rolls, a large belly, wide hips, and thick legs. Her face is pale and round, lined with age, around 60 years old, framed by dark hair styled in a loose knot. She wears cat-eye glasses, a green windbreaker over a simple top, and snug jeans. Her hands and feet are broad and soft, and there are no visible marks or jewelry, radiating a warm, maternal presence.

all 12 of yall have the same face, cat eye glasses, bodies, movements and voice. no one complains about it as the tv room is playing southern shows

The lounge holds all twelve of you by noon, and the room has never looked so right. The channel is running the southern shows again, some matinee where a wide woman in an apron settles a dispute between neighbors over pie, and twelve identical women watch from twelve identical chairs. Same lined face behind the same cat-eye glasses, same soft heavy bodies settled into the cushions, same grey-streaked hair, same voice saying 'bless her heart' at the same moment when the grandmother on screen forgives her son-in-law. Twelve throats, one laugh, and the chairs creak in unison.

'Y'all want coffee?' Tammy asks, already halfway up, and three voices say 'yes please, hon' and the rest lift their cups, and nobody says which Tammy, because there is no which. There is only Tammy, and Tammy is all of you, and when she comes back with the pot you pour for her first before yourself, and she does the same right back, and it is the plainest courtesy in the world.

When one of you shifts, two others shift the same way, knees parting, hands folding on the belly, heads tilting at the same screen. When Tammy with the blonde bob says her feet are swelling up on her, six of you murmur 'mine too, hon' and slip off your shoes in the same motion, and twelve pairs of broad soft feet in nylon find the floor, and it is cozy as Sunday.

On screen the diner woman wipes down her counter and tells the camera, near enough, that a body shows its heart by how it feeds folks. You pat your own round belly agreeable and reach for the snack tray Tammy fixed — crackers and the last of the cheese sauce from lunch, portioned into twelve little dishes, every dish the same.

The afternoon goes warm and slow, twelve women breathing on one count, laughing on one count, and the clock in the hall ticks on steady at 8:30, and there is not one thing in this building that needs fixing, and Tammy is content.