Scarlett Gorman's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Scarlett Gorman walked into the chrome-ringed restaurant for the fourth time this month, belly leading, black crop top riding up over red skin. She wanted one thing from this planet of pale, polite men: someone who would stay through the second platter and laugh when she burped. She had walked out on three dinners already. Each one ended the same way, with her finishing the food first and leaving the date staring at an empty plate. She touched the pendant at her throat before she sat down. The lens caught light and stored it. She had paid a tinker to rig the little camera so she could replay a face later, frame by frame, and learn the exact second a man's mouth tightened. First glances lied. Smiles lied. The pendant did not. She still could not tell, in the moment, who would adore the curve of her gut and who would bolt before the bread came. Guessing wrong cost her another ruined dinner, and she was tired of paying. Her date was already seated. Thin, clean collar, hands folded. She slid in across from him and ordered the biggest thing on the menu, the heaped platter with three meats, rice, and grilled fruit. She ordered the tall bottle of sparkling soda too, the cheap kind with the loud label. He blinked twice. The pendant blinked once, recording. The food came. She ate. She used both hands. She drank straight from the bottle and let the carbonation climb. The first burp rolled out of her halfway through the rice, low and long, and she patted her belly without looking up. "Keep talking," she said. He had stopped talking. She watched his eyes drop to her stomach and then jump to the window. Her gut tightened before her brain caught up. She kept eating. She cleared the platter, ordered a second, cleared most of that too. Three more burps. Each one louder. He laughed once, thin, at the second. By the fourth he was folding his napkin into smaller and smaller squares. He left money on the table and an excuse about an early shift. She did not chase him. She finished his uneaten bread, drained the bottle, and stepped outside into the cold to replay the pendant. On the small lens she watched his face in slow motion: the tight mouth at burp one, the flinch at burp two, the decision at burp three. She had her answer six minutes before he made his excuse. The pendant worked. On her way back to the transit lane she passed the wreck still rotting on the shoulder from her second walkout, the old carriage tipped on its side, wheels splintered, frame furred with glowing fungus. She patted her belly at it like an old friend. Next time, she decided, she would check the pendant between courses, not after. Next time, she would know before the bread came.