I learned her order before I learned her name. 2 breadnaught class hot dogs, no mustard, large chocolate milk. It was hard for me not to stare as every single bite entered her mouth one after another, each one straining her tight but stretchy dress just a little more against her stomach. There wasn’t much of a tummy there, not initially anyway, but there was a slight paunch, and she’d never hide it…
I didn’t mean to stare. But I did.
I came back the next day. And the day after that.
She always sat in a booth, sometimes with friends, sometimes with family, but often just by herself. It didn’t take long to learn her routine, she finished work at the same time every day, and almost every time it was followed by a trip to the Starlight Diner. I’ve never spoken to her. Sometimes I wonder if she has ever noticed me, the same person sitting in the dark in the corner almost every time she comes in, would she be creeped out?
I probably should just mind my own business, go home and do something else with my day. Maybe I should just actually go and talk to her? No. She could say anything. Best to stay unknown. If she actually noticed me then I may not be able to watch her hips settle wider and wider on the plush booths. I’ve noticed how her friends have to sit further away from the wall to make room for her now, I notice it all.
I’m just observing, that’s harmless right? That’s what I told myself, but it wasn’t just observation, it was obsession.
I got even more adventurous last month, watching as she walked back to her car, a small beat up hatchback. Watching the gap between the wheels and the body close in as she sits down, her weight compressing the suspension more and more each week. I keep wondering what might happen if it… You know… Bottoms out.
I didn’t try to keep track, but I know exactly when she outgrows an outfit. I watch the seams strain, the waistbands dig in creating a plush fold, until suddenly I never see said outfit again. Then I watch as her replacements fill out themselves, the once oversized tees become fitted or even cropped…
It’s subtle at first. Fabric that once skimmed now clings. A hemline that used to hang straight begins to ride up, caught on the curve of her hips. When she stands, she smooths it down with an absentminded tug, like she doesn’t even realize what’s changed. But I do. I always do.
The diner booths tell the story better than her clothes. When she first started coming, she’d slide in easily, one smooth motion. Now there’s a pause. A shift. She angles herself sideways before settling in, the vinyl seat giving a soft wheeze beneath her. The table meets her stomach sooner than it used to.
No one else seems to notice.
Or maybe they do, and they’re simply polite.
Last Tuesday, she laughed, really laughed, head thrown back, one hand resting on the swell of her belly like she needed to steady it. The movement pushed her dress up just enough for me to see the way her waist had softened, a front row view of the new orb of excess flesh growing on her midsection.
She doesn’t hide it. That’s the part that gets me.
She orders without apology. Eats without hesitation. Finishes every bite.
Two breadnaught class hot dogs. No mustard. Large chocolate milk.
Every day.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday she ordered three.
I almost missed it because I was too busy watching the way she eased herself into the booth. It took longer than usual. She exhaled when she finally settled, if the table weren’t bolted to the floor it probably would have been repelled an inch or two by the swell of her belly.
This was perhaps the most exciting development since her gut accidentally honked the horn as she squeezed into her undersized hatchback. A normal person doesn’t come here by themselves almost every day and order 3 giant hot dogs and think that’s just fine.
She knows.
The thought has been circling my head all night. She knows she’s growing. She knows the booths fit differently. She knows her car dips lower when she slides inside. And she keeps going. Maybe I’m going crazy, but I thought she even looked at me the other day. I couldn’t tell, it’s not like my eyes were on her face.
The show is getting a little too good now. It’s getting difficult to hide what’s in my pants when I have to get up to see her squeeze into her car. I just sit here, legs awkwardly crossed on my leather stool, drinking my soda…
The show was getting good tonight. The booth groaned under her weight as she leaned back, her stomach rounding against the table’s edge. She let out a long, satisfied sigh, her hand rubbing slow circles over her belly. I imagined what it would feel like to touch her there, to press my palm against the softness, to feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her shirt.
I wanted to go back inside. I wanted to sit across from her. I wanted to feed her.
I didn’t.
But I came back the next day.
And the day after that.
One evening, I heard it, the sharp rip of fabric. A seam giving way. She froze, her face flushing, her hands flying to her hips where the waistband of her leggings had split. She stood abruptly, a slight waddled in her step, the haste creating new ripples in her belly that I had never seen the likes of before.
I watched everything ripple with each step, the way her thighs smacked together, the fabric of her leggings unable to contain the sheer amount of movement caused by her hurried dash. I watched until the restroom door swung shut behind her.
She avoided the curious eyes as she sat back down, looking embarrassed, but not enough to stop. I was too busy watching the way her belly pressed against the table, the way her arms jiggled when she reached for her fork, to even notice the complimentary dessert the waitress had slipped onto her table out of sympathy.
The next evening, I didn’t take my usual stool in the shadows.
I walked in and felt the weight of that decision in my chest. It would be easy to retreat. To go back to the corner. To keep pretending I was invisible.
She was already there. Three hot dogs again.
The booth creaked as she shifted, her belly pressing confidently into the edge of the table. There was no hiding it now. Her once slight paunch had become undeniable, rounding outward and downward, the largest shirt she could find, stretched so tight you could see the pale skin of her belly shining through.
I stood there longer than I should have. Then I walked toward her.
Every step felt like stepping off a cliff.
She noticed. Of course she did.
Her chewing slowed as I approached. Her eyes lifted from her plate to my face. Really looked at me this time.
Up close, she was even softer. Fuller cheeks. A faint flush from the warmth of the diner and the effort of simply existing in a body that had grown heavy enough to spill out of an entire half of the booths.
“Is this seat taken?” I heard myself ask, gesturing at the other side of the booth, there was no room beside her anymore…
My voice sounded steadier than I felt.
She glanced at the empty space across from her. Then back at me.
“Uhh, no,” she said. “It’s not.”
I slid into the booth. It didn’t give under me the way it did for her, she dwarfed me. Utterly.
Up close, there was no safe distance. No shadows to hide in. The top half of her belly spilled over onto the table as she reached for her milk, the roll even nudging her plate a touch towards me.
“You come here every day,” she said surprisingly calmly.
There was no accusation in her tone. Just fact.
“I thought you hadn’t noticed,” I admitted.
She laughed softly, a motion that wobbled the steel table slightly as her belly sloshed against it. I should have felt humiliated. Instead, my heart pounded even harder. She set her fork down.
“You like watching?”
I nodded before I could stop myself. Her gaze flickered downward, then back up. Assessing. Measuring. Her hand drifted over the swell of her belly again, slow and absentminded. She leaned forward slightly. The table pressed into her stomach, the pressure obvious now, unapologetic.
“I see it.”
She paused for a second, a second that felt like it lasted forever.
“I… don’t mind.”
She reached for the last bite of her dessert. Lifted it. Paused.
Then, instead of eating it, she held the fork out toward me.