Chapter 2 - A Ticket

She spent most of that day travelling between her large bathroom mirror to opening her large fridge door and staring inside, giving up, eating, and returning to the mirror. She was so angry with herself for not managing to control her body, but then she would just deflate her soaring motivation, knowing she won’t be able to fix damage of over three years by suddenly ordering a salad. So what was the point anyway?

When night came and she felt brave enough, fueled with enough sugar to put a raccoon in a coma, she turned on her computer again and looked at the email she had received from Peter once more. He wrote it as if he wasn’t expecting her to reply or even read it, but he still added that if she’ll get a chance to come and see him perform, a ticket under her name will be waiting for her at the ticket’s booth at a specific date. Adele wiped her sticky fingers on her t-shirt, and clicked on the reply button. Her fingers hovered over of her keyboard’s keys for a moment.

“Hey Peter,” she started to type. “Sorry for not replying for so long.”

She stared at the words until they burnt themselves into her retinas. She needed to think. His signature linked into his Instagram page, and she clicked on it, looking for a distraction. Immediately she regretted it. She missed his face so fucking much. He was just as he looked when they were in high school – No, better looking. His shoulders ever so slightly wider. His jaw line sharper. He was smiling at the camera in some images, in a middle of a wonderful sauté arabesque in another. She started watching his videos and felt her breath being snatched away.

She scrolled on and on, further and further in time, until she recognized her old self in one of them. It was like seeing herself from a different life time. The slender graceful figure, perfectly poised and erect, her arms both twig like yet powerful. Even back then she was never pleased with herself. Always anxious about her measurements, her weight, her appearance. She and Peter would sometimes massage each other to relieve their sore muscles, and even when one thing would lead to another... she never allowed him to remove her clothes. He always teased her about it, but respected her wishes – squeezing her body into an orgasm even through the layer of clothes she would wear. And why was she so petrified? Back then - - She used to be so lovely. Not as beautiful as he was, perhaps, but she had absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.

She looked at herself on the screen, leaning backwards beautifully, her tiny waist secured in Peter’s strong hands. And then she looked down at her stained t-shirt, her soft bloated gut pushing it upwards to peek at her from beneath the strained fabric. She can’t write back. She can’t.

She pushed herself from the desk, almost stumbling into her bedroom and rolling onto her bed. The mattress creaked loudly and she moaned. Even her own bed was chastising her.

What can she possibly write to Peter? “Sorry for not replying for over three years, I’m a shitty friend”? What a huge revelation. But she felt an actual ache in her heart, imagining the specific date coming, and him glancing every now and again to her empty designated seat.

What if she will show up?

Her shoulders twitched violently at that idea. She wanted to. She really wanted to see him dance again. To see him, period. But she imagined him peeking at the audience through a narrow gap in the curtains, his blue eyes reach her seat and widen with shock. Did Adele give her ticket to someone else? No… It’s Adele. Adele, fat and bloated and meaty, her features just barely identifiable.

Her imagination was becoming ridiculous at that point. No one could see that well from that far. But like watching a horror film, without any ability to change the order of events, her sick imagination unfolded in her mind. Peter would refuse to begin the show until he would know for sure it’s her. He’ll send one of the staff to get her backstage. The people around her will become quiet, looking at her with curiosity and slight disgust. What is SHE doing in a ballet performance? Why is she being called away? She will be led to the back stage by the confused and annoyed usher, her flesh trembles with every step as she’ll pass by the slender and beautiful dancers who would look at her and whisper among themselves. Maybe few of them would be her peers from high school.

“Adele?” Peter would look at her, astonished, as she will reach him. “What happened to you? What did you do to yourself?” His beautiful eyes will scan her, her figure, her slumped posture, her messy hair, the sweat her face will covered with from shame and effort. Then his eyes will twinkle again with humor “You made yourself into a sow!” He’ll declare and laugh with amazement.

He won’t say it. There is no way he’ll say it, is there?

Adele lifted her head with effort, and realized that somewhere beyond the mound of flesh of her belly, her right hand was pressed between her wide flabby thighs. Now not only she felt like a sow, she felt like a perverted sow. She allowed her head fall back, and closed her eyes. Fine. There was so little joy in her life between one meal to another. At least she was enjoying something that wasn’t food related.

“You made yourself into a sow!” Peter will declare and laugh with amazement. “That’s insane. Look at you – “ he’ll take a few graceful light steps back, as if needing more space to being able to fully look at her massive body.

“Please, Peter, not so loud!” She’ll beg quietly, red with humiliation, aware of the audience behind the curtains.

“Is that why you didn’t reply to my emails?” he’ll ask, getting close again, circling her like a hawk “Because you’ve got fat?”

And she’ll cover her face with her hands with shame, sniffling and trembling, knowing she probably looks like a bowl of pink pudding.

“No, don’t cry.” He’ll say with regret. “Here, let me make you feel better – “ and he’ll start petting and embracing her body, his strong beautiful hands and fingers familiar to her, her body completely new to him. His touch will slip on new folds and crevices, soft jiggly flesh, belly stuffed to the brim. And the other dancers will look and whisper and whisper and whisper.

“Please, Peter!” she’ll beg, looking at her surrounding with horror, the need burning in her, her knees giving in from both anxiousness mixed with desire. She’ll fall on her ass like a heavy bag of potatoes, like a sea cow moving on land. Her heavy breasts and belly spread and almost melt to her sides like ice cream scoops who fell on the sidewalk.

And Peter over her, beautiful and perfect and in control, purposeful and following his dreams. He’ll laugh cheerfully, his white teeth gleaming. “I know, I know, be patient. I’ll make you cum in a bit.” – his leg moves beautifully to press his point shoe between her fat thighs, snickers and mocking laugher from the other dancers fills her ears as the orgasm swells and shakes her body and then deflates it into the void of her groaning bed.

She breathed heavily. Her lips were dry, and throat was parched, and her skin was sticky with sweat. Her heart pounded like crazy.

“Gross” She whispered, lifting her pillow and smacking it hard against her face.