You and her sit in adjacent booths, your backs running parallel along the vinyl seats. You have only just arrived; she has been here for an hour, policing an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet with a kind of determined hunger. Steam rises from the long metal trays behind her, sending scents of sesame, garlic, and sweet soy across the table. The lights hum. Nearby people chatter, and the clink of cutlery keeps time.

On her side, there is a leaning tower of sauce-streaked plates and several empty cups sweating with condensation. Her posture reads like she tried to look casual, but failed: she is half-slumped against the booth, one elbow braced on the table while the other hand rests draped and lazily on the curve of her belly. The belly itself is round and taut, pushed full and soft; the dress fabric is stretched over the swell, so the seam pulls a little at the bodice. The edge of the table catches the lower curve, leaving a clear line where the roundness presses into it. Every few seconds, her stomach rumbles, a wet, contented gurgle that grows into a low, protesting growl as the hours of eating are digested.

Ggggrrgrggllleeee…

She lets out a damp, unapologetic burp, cheeks flushing as she shifts to make room for the pressure.

“Ugh-… UUOOUUuurrrp… oof… so full…~”