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Room for Desserts - a submission from justkeeprunning at Feabie

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I’m waiting tables at a steakhouse. It’s a quiet night, and one of my regulars comes in. Same time, same booth, same meal every Saturday night. Just a small steak and some beer to take the edge off, and then another to sip on while idly watching whatever happens to be on the TV across the room.

I’m making some small talk while asking if he would like his usual when the front door slams open and a group of 4 or 5 guys clamor in, one aiming a camera at the biggest, bandana-clad buffoon of the lot. They brush past the hostess and the ringleader loudly declares to no one in particular that he is here to take on the Belly Buster Challenge, rambling on about some sort of YouTube time record for completing it in under an hour.

Casually watching now, my regular and I watch the “influencer” - or whatever he was - tear into the pile of steak with gusto, slow down about ½ way through, and simply give up soon afterwards complaining of how salty the steak was today. His loud crowd now silenced, they all sheepishly leave the restaurant.

As I gather up the plate of remaining steak to toss it, I feel bad having to make the quiet man wait so long for his food–which had still not even made its way to the grill given this abrupt massive set-back–and offer him either a discount on his meal (which would be ready “shortly”), or he could have the rest of this platter on the house given that it was still hot and ready and steak can’t be uncooked.

He mulls it over for a bit and happily accepts. He slowly cuts into the steak and savors it, chewing slowly and happily sampling the various different sauces. The Cowboys game is just starting, and the peaceful mood returns to the restaurant. No need to rush the evening.

As I attend my other tables, I realize that I am acutely aware of how the massive platter of steak is beginning to vanish more and more rapidly. Perhaps it is the increased speed of the soft clinking of his fork and knife, or maybe it is the slow but certain bulge of his belly pressing further and further out against the table each time I walk by. Topping up his pint glass for the 4th time–or was it the 5th–I begin bringing out little dessert samplers for him to taste test as well. These are not requested, but they are well received. And I am oh so very curious about where his limit might actually be.

After finishing the very last bite of steak, he sighs and leans back, stuffed to the brim and absolutely content. It is closing time now, and I am finishing sweeping up. All the other patrons have left and my staff are all heading out the door, anxious to get to a movie on time.

As he begins to slowly get to his feet, I hear the sound of a thread or two snapping before slow lumbering footsteps head my way. Pivoting gracefully, I spin to face him, trying to hide a smile as he sheepishly asks if I have a phone he can borrow to call a cab, as he had much more to drink than he had planned on that night.

Checking my watch, I realize there is very little chance that he will find a ride at this hour, and instead I offer to drive him home, as he lives only a little ways away. But I make the offer on one condition. I have been on my feet all day and haven’t had a chance to eat yet, so I want to sit down for a minute or three and get a quick bite…and maybe some dessert.

Trying to contain my enthusiasm as he squeezes back into the booth, I bring out a smorgasbord of leftovers that would otherwise go to waste. As the conversation flows, I keep his glass topped up and continually suggest that he tries a little bit of the cole slaw, then some of the baked potato, then a rib or two or four, then back for some baked beans, all the while noting how his belly is now pushing onto the table as well as under it, how the old booth creaks when he shifts his weight. When I happily spring to my feet when all the food is gone, briskly bringing the empty dishes to the kitchen, I am overjoyed to hear the labored struggling behind me, knowing full well that in all my years as a waitress, this is the first time someone has truly eaten so much that they physically can’t get out of the booth! Gliding back to the table, I am awestruck by the sight that greets me. Stuck and panting from the exertion, comically distended belly pressed up against the table and forcing his back against the wall, he struggles a little longer to wriggle free before melting back into the booth, gazing imploringly at me for aid.

Anticipating The Feast

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Ah, Thanksgiving. You’ve been looking forward to it for weeks, I know. The way your eyes light up when you talk about your mother’s pumpkin pie, my fluffy mashed potatoes, the smoked turkey your brother does so well each year. The way you absently rub your stomach as you list out the other side dishes and desserts you’re looking forward to. I know you will be disappointed if a single one fails to make an appearance on the table this year–like the way your Aunt Debbie went on a health kick and brought a vegetable platter instead of her green bean casserole five years ago and you still complain about it.

I don’t know what you are going to wear tomorrow. Even your sweat pants seem to be pinching you lately, the way you shift the waistband around. You’ve put on a lot of weight this past year. I’m not sure what the number on the scale is–you never share that with me–but there’s no denying you’ve crossed the line from chubby to fat. Your relatives no longer remark how you must be enjoying home cooking or that you should take it easy and hit the gym. The fat you is the new normal.

I know that tomorrow you are going to do fat boys everywhere proud. You’ll sample everything, more than once, and then get a second wind for dessert. On a day when everyone will be pigging out, you’ll be the biggest pig of all, eating until your belly feels like a lead balloon. You’ll beach yourself on the couch, giving me a glance and asking me to bring you another slice of pie, knowing I’ll bring you two. Every bite will disappear into your fat, overfilled stomach.

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You’re standing in front of the mirror, trying to decide if the shirt you’ve picked out is too tight or not. I come up beside you and slip one arm around your waist and settle my other hand on your—no, our—belly.

“I might’ve put on a few lately,” you say, giving it a rueful pat. “Do you think this still fits?”

Truthfully, it is borderline, and you could probably get away with it if you kept your gut sucked in. I place my finger over the button that strains the most.

“Whether it fits or not depends on how hungry you are today.” In the mirror, I can see you flush a little and your breathing speed up. You turn toward me and pull me firmly into your belly.

What’s going on? I heard you struggling. Are you…(laughs) oh, I see, can’t get your jeans on, huh? You’re all red faced and sweaty. Take it easy or you’re going to hurt yourself. Here, let me help you. Stand there, I’ll reach around from behind and…oh, wow, I can barely fit my arms around you now. I guess all my home cooking is having an effect on you. 

Wait, aren’t these jeans the new ones we got you? Yeah, I’m sure these are the ones we got that were two whole sizes bigger. What’s going on? Have I shrunk them? Can you shrink denim? Wow, ok, maybe no more jeans after this pair, these barely lasted two weeks. Now, hold still and breathe in. One, two and (huffing and puffing) no, no they really don’t want to go on, do they? I can’t get them up over your butt enough to do up the button. I think your butt is what’s stopping me reaching around easily. I’m kinda leaning over it to get in close to you. 

Next time we go out for a drink, I want to lean on it like you’re a bar stool and see if anyone notices (laughs). It’s so big now I could almost rest my drink on it like a table. You’re so puffed out, you should sit down and get your breath back. You’re not used to all this exertion anymore. 

It’s a shame you don’t have any more nice trousers that fit. I wanted you to have something to go with this shirt I got you. Actually, you’d better try this on. I’m not sure it’s going to fit either. I used the size you were when we went shopping for these jeans. Now I look at you, the way your belly spills on to your lap through those open jeans. There’s no way, is there? Look at those fresh, red stretch marks. It’s just gotten so big. 

A little more… a little more, that’s it, you’re so close. Just a few more mouthfuls baby, come on, you can do this. I know it hurts but you’re nearly there. Just look at your belly now, gosh, it’s gotten so swollen! I can’t believe how much bigger you look now than you did this morning. I’m so proud of you, you ate almost non stop today.

There was the bacon and pancakes I made you for breakfast, the pack of cup cakes you ate right after… I almost forgot I had to make you all that buttery toast just to fill you up. Then there was all the chips and dips you ate while waiting for lunch. Oh and the box of chocolates we got for our anniversary, can you believe our friends thought that would last at least a week?

If I didn’t know you so well I’d be shocked that all that didn’t spoil your appetite for your Burger King lunch. Two whopper meals and onion rings. Oh, and the donuts you got from the little van in town, I mean, the guy’s jaw dropped when you ordered 20, I think he sold them in bags of 3. I had to drive careful over the bumps in the road on the way home, your belly was just so swollen and sore. It was so cute watching you panting for breath while still eating those donuts. They were so dripping in fat that the bags had gone soggy and see-through. It’s no wonder you needed a little nap when we got back.

You know, while you were sleeping, I was rubbing that big old belly of yours. It was so puffed out. I listened to your heavy breathing and your belly groaning as it digested all that grease. Then I woke you up for this lasagna. The recipe said this serves 10 people, can you believe that? That’s nonsense you’ve eaten almost all of it yourself. I maybe had a couple of mouthfuls to taste all that cheese, I mean, wow, it’s so rich. No wonder you’re struggling to finish this.