Chapter 2 - section 2

[12 october, Thursday]

Nosika Schoengraud had been fired nearly a month ago and they still haven't found someone to replace her. Well, today's the lucky day, because as Georgia pushes the cart down the aisle towards the warehouse doors, who else scoots across her path but a boy she's never seen before. She thinks nothing of it for a moment until, stopping short with a silent, internal gasp, a sort of spasm in her diaphragm, she turns her head to let her eyes track him in pure admiration. He turns around another aisle, tagging along behind Yino the store manager, who seems to be pointing to and explaining things. The new boy rubs his face, maybe in bewilderment at the job's requirements, before vanishing entirely. Throat suddenly dry, groin pulling her in one direction and her job another, she stares after the channel of empty air the new guy had left behind him. Two words: cute AF. Three words. Two and a half? Who gives a f@ck. Georgia has not mistaken this feeling - she's felt it before. There's only one way you can possibly feel about such deep, babyblue eyes, about a jawline so meekly powerful she could run her finger along it with her eyes shut and visualise every angle. Is it possible for a guy to have lashes so long? His eyebrows, strong and mysteriously dark, express his emotions against hair of a lighter shade, but there's nothing inauthentic about it; she can spot a dye from miles off, no matter how professional.

What she doesn't know, and will not know for some time yet, is that his name is William Joseph. That's right; the same guy from the viral "Yeah I guess" video, in which he ashamedly admits before a jury of drunk friends that he's a chubby chaser. The video, posted, reposted, saved, re-saved and reposted again so many times to all corners of the surface-web until, at a sweet frame rate of about 20 fps, he is shown from an unstable high-angle shot looking irritated and dogged into some sort of confession in 360p. To this impending confession, a cluster of drunken mates gather around, one of them repeating, 'So are you? So are you? So are you? Are you a chubby chaser or what?' And, after about 1:31 minutes into the video, filled with the same question repeated in varying accents other than Australian - German, American, British, Irish, Scottish, Russian, South African, New Zealand - William finally breaks, bottle in hand, saying, famously and quietly, "Yeah? I guess..." before the cluster of mates break out in an earphone-shattering roar and the video cuts off.

This video, as a matter of fact, is so well known that Fraser, a long-term employee, actually goes up to him later on that day, recognises him and, thinking it's going to be a shared joke, asks, 'Hey, hey, you're that guy from that youtube video, right? Hey; so are you? Are you a chubby chaser? Are you?'

But the mirth is blasted off Fraser's face like water off a windscreen wiper. William, trying not to bite his lip in irritation, looks sternly into the distance, someplace far away from Fraser, and says, 'Yeah piss off mate.'

It's not as if Fraser can says orry, here. The insult is obviously too raw. Having fucked up so grand, Fraser tries to change the topic, fails, gives up, backs away and goes off on some errand he was never appointed to.

Meanwhile, a newly out-of-shape Georgia is beginning to feel the first pangs of what will be some anxiety-inducing insecurity. Something she's never really felt before. As the days grind by like rolling stones in a grain mill, she takes measures to seem more normal - where normal means how she used be: slender, less self-doubting, less mindless around snacks, etcetera... But why would that ever work? Once you're down the path, the only way to go back is to... turn back entirely. You can't just start poking around in the bushes to either side, hoping a new path will turn up. And that's exactly what she's doing: taking short cuts.

Take the following Momday for example. She's spent the whole weekend eating and feeling like shit about it, thinking that new guy at work will never even glance at her so long as she keeps this up. So on Monday morning she heads to work with a salad in a plastic tub, sits down in the common room, feeling her belly squeeze unappealingly over her belt, and digs in, only to find that salad, unfortunately, tastes fairly sh!t. All that pouring more seasoning over it does is create this over-zesty miasma of liquid and tastelessness, leaving the hungry hole in her stomach emptier than ever and her tongue salivating for the sugars and carbs that it isn't getting. If anything has paid off at all, it's the fact that the new guy had passed her by just as she was eating the salad. Could be a victory, could not. But, fantasise and squirm around her groin as she might, the fact remains that the new boy hadn't even glanced at her.

During the next week, she keeps this salad-eating act going, despite drastic failure every day, leading to a relief-binge on something that actually tastes sexy. If only she could look the way things tasted. Day to day, she has to hide any evidence of eating at work, even if it involves salad containers. She never chews louder than she needs to, never opens anything like a wrapper with the tell-tale sounds of crinkling, hides anything remotely tasty in her purse or keeps it in her car, tries not to look into the supermarket's chocolate stands at the checkouts or the rainbow vending machines down hallways keeping all your hopes and dreams behind glass, obtainable only if you'd just... give me that... coin there... yes, those four pieces of change... come here and put them in me, I'll give you everything... Georgia stands, looking mournfully into one, hating it for what it is, as she waits in line to order coffees. This morning she's been tasked with doing the caffeine-rounds at a little cafe around the corner from work. Her turn comes up and, after listing off the coffee orders, stands back and catches sight of all these decorated muffins behind glass on the countertop. Here come her urges again, not just in the stomach this time but finding their way down to her groin. Gravity is the absolute force. Nobody's figured out how to rise above it. At least you can resist gravity in small amounts; jumping, getting spun in a Spin-O-Tron at the show, flying into space... but it's always there, ready to shove you down the moment you're back again. Hand surrendering to the force of hunger, she rummages for coins in her purse, pays for two muffins, settles down at one of the tables and begins to eat. By the time she's started on the second, it's too late, the coffee orders are ready. Unable to use just one hand, she stashes the muffin her purse, pays for the coffees and makes her way back to work balancing ten hot takeaway cups in a stack.

In the common room, she's met with a round of thanks as she sets it all down on the table and they're already vulturing in to swipe up their order. Standing back up again, something's falls out her purse. Squatting down with a small grunt and weak legs, she feels her belt constricting her waist which wants to expand. She down and sees what else but the muffin, rolled under the table, risking being trodden on. Hoping nobody's watching, she moves onto her knees, leans forwards, grabs the muffin, stashes it back in her purse and pushes herself back up with less ability than she remembers having. She stands straight and, amid a blaze of oxygen-fueled head-rush, notices who else but the new guy, apologetically moving in to grab his own coffee order, one of the last there, and giving her a brief nod before rushing off in a heap of wired nerves to do whatever the manager had asked him to do in these first two weeks on the job.

Stunned frozen, Georgia looks around, making sure nobody else is around. Which there isn't. It'd just been him and her. What had he seen? Eyes ablaze with worry, she frisks herself down, feeling for anything out of place - her fingers catch on the loose hem of her shirt near her hips, having slipped out from under her belt while she was down there, leaving visible a small sliver of lovehandle, feeling squishable and soft under her fingers. Before anyone can see, she tucks the fabric back in and leaves the room. The rest of her day is pretty much spoiled, a colourless shadow seeming to permeated every interaction she has, whether with people or inanimate objects. And, despite her developing crush, she avoids the new boy for the rest of her shift.