Scarlett Gorman's Arc

Chapter 2 of 5

The pendant had taught Scarlett one thing: restaurants were the wrong hunting ground. Thin men in clean collars would never love her belly, no matter how loud she burped between courses. So she packed the camera away and tried a new plan. If she wanted a man who already loved big bellies and loud burps, she had to go where such men gathered. She had heard of a park on the south rim where the picnic tables stayed full past dark and the laughter carried. She arrived at noon with both arms full of takeout. Six paper sacks. Two stacked trays. A jug of dark soda hooked on one finger. She set it all down on the long picnic bench at the center of the park, where chairs and tables stood bolted together in a friendly square. Then she pulled the painted board from under her arm and propped it against the soda jug. Bold letters in pink and yellow and green: calling all belly lovers. She sat down behind the sign, tugged her crop top up over the curve of her gut, and started eating. She ate the way she ate at home. Two hands. Open mouth. Grease on her chin. She tore through fried meat and noodles and sweet buns. She drank straight from the jug. The first burp came halfway through the second tray, low and long, and she patted her belly and kept chewing. People passing on the path looked. Some looked away. A woman with a child crossed to the far side of the grass. A pair of men in work coats slowed, stared at the sign, and walked on faster. Scarlett finished every container. She stacked the empty boxes in a tower beside the sign. Her belly pushed hard against the waistband of her shorts. She leaned back, rested both hands on top of the swell, and let out a burp that turned three heads at the next bench. "Anyone want to rub it for me?" she called. She said it loud. She said it clear. She watched the path. No one came. A teenager laughed once and kept walking. An older man tipped his hat and looked at his feet. The bench across from her stayed empty. She sat with her hand on her gut for a long time, counting the people who chose not to stop. The sign had worked the way the pendant worked. It told her the truth fast. The truth was that a sign alone would not pull the right man out of a crowd. Open invitations drew gawkers, not keepers. She gathered the empty boxes into one sack. She tucked the sign under her arm. On the walk back to the transit lane she opened the small case at her hip, the one where she kept the short list of faces worth a second look. Two portraits inside. Both from old dates. She would need a third way to find him. Broadcasting was not enough. Next time, she would go where one man stood alone, and she would choose him.