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.

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.

Scarlett walked home from the park with the empty boxes in one sack and the painted sign under her arm. Two faces in her portrait case. Neither one a sure thing. She set the case on her kitchen table and opened the glass doors of the larger cabinet behind it, where a longer row of portraits hung in their frames. Glowing symbols ran in lines between the rows. She had collected the faces over a year of dates. She stood there a long time and did not pick one. Picking a single man felt like another guess. She wanted a place where the guessing was already done. She sat down with her tablet and searched. She typed phrases she had never typed before. Where big bellies are welcome. Where a loud burp is a compliment. The first hits were jokes and ads. She kept scrolling. On the fourth page a traveler had written a short post about a dining hall on the far side of the river. He said the women there ate until they could not stand, and the men paid to watch, and the bigger the belly the longer the line at her table. He gave the name. He said to look for the dome. Scarlett went the next evening. She walked the river road until the dome came into view, a low building of colored crystal under a faceted roof. Pink and green light spilled out through the panels. A soda fountain stood in the front court, taller than her, with bright jets arcing into a wide basin. Foam ran down the sides. Above the front doors hung a wooden sign in plain letters: welcome, everyone eats for free. A smaller board beside the doors listed the rule below it. Big belly women eat for free, always. Other guests pay by weight gained at the table. She stepped inside. The room held a dozen booths in deep pink velvet. Every booth had a woman in it, and every woman was eating. Plates stacked three high. Sauce on chins. One woman finished a long pour from a pitcher and let out a burp that carried across the room. The men at the next booth clapped. A server passed Scarlett a card and told her to order anything she liked, as much as she liked, and to take her time. Scarlett's stomach did not tighten. It loosened. She felt her shoulders drop for the first time in months. She ordered four trays. She ate the way she ate at home. Two hands, open mouth, grease on her chin. Halfway through the second tray she burped long and low and patted her belly. A man two booths over lifted his glass to her. Another man, older, walked over and asked if he could sit. She nodded with her mouth full. He watched her chew and smiled like she was doing him a favor. She had found the place. The hunting ground was real. Now she had to choose from the men inside it.

The older man stayed at her booth through three more trays. He told her his name and asked questions while she chewed. He did not flinch when she burped into her napkin. When the servers cleared the last plate, Scarlett felt the press of food high in her chest and the trapped gas behind it. She set her hand on the top of her belly and pushed. Nothing came. She looked at the man across the booth and decided to test him before the night ended. She asked if he would come home with her and rub the air out of her belly. He stood up before she finished the sentence. He walked her along the river road to her own front porch. Her bungalow sat back from the path, red door under a low roof, two lamps already lit. She let him in. He did not look at the cabinet of portraits in the front room. He looked at her belly and at the kitchen behind her. She led him to the back porch where she kept a low couch and a wide table. She brought out a bowl of fruit and four tall bottles of soda and set them between them. Grapes, pears, sliced orange, a heap of berries. He pulled a small bottle from his coat and set it next to the soda. The label read gentle appetite aid. He told her it would keep her stomach soft so she could keep going. She uncorked it, sniffed, and drank half in one pull. The warmth spread under her ribs. The tightness loosened. She lay back on the couch with her belly bare between the crop top and shorts. He sat by her hip and put both hands flat on the curve. He rubbed in slow circles, up the side, across the top, down to the navel. She bit a pear. She drank from the first bottle in long swallows. The first burp came up easy and loud. He laughed and kept rubbing. She patted the side of her belly and grinned. She ate her way through the bowl. Grapes by the handful. Orange slices folded into her mouth. Two more bottles drained. The burps came in a steady run, each one longer than the last, and he praised every one. He pressed under her ribs when one stuck and it broke free against the ceiling. She laughed with her mouth full and reached for the fourth bottle. Her stomach did not tighten the way it did with the almost-keeper. It stayed loose under his hands. When the bowl was empty she lay flat and breathed. He kept one hand on her belly and asked if he could come back tomorrow. She said yes. She did not reach for the camera pendant on the shelf. She did not need the footage. She had found a man who stayed through the burps and asked to come back for more.

The older man left at sunrise with a promise to return by dusk. Scarlett walked him to the porch and watched him take the river road. She turned back inside and saw a purple boot print pressed into the soft dirt by her bottom step. The crust around it glowed faint pink and green. Scarlett knew that print. Sara had been here while she slept, sniffing around the man she had decided to keep. Scarlett dressed and packed a crate. She loaded six bottles of fizzy soda with bright labels, a wheel of cheese, two loaves, and a heavy chain badge she kept in a drawer. The badge was metal, engraved with a snarling face and old marks of ownership. She had won it years ago and never wore it. Today she would. She hung it around her neck and felt the weight settle on her belly. She walked to the iron gate at the edge of her marsh path and pushed it wide. Glowing fungi laced the bars. The gate marked where her land began. She set the crate on a flat stone just past it and sat down to eat. She drank the first bottle in long pulls and let the first burp go loud enough to roll across the water. Birds lifted off the reeds. Sara came out of the trees within the hour. Purple dress, big belly held high, the same walk Scarlett used. Scarlett did not stand. She opened a second bottle and drank. Sara stopped at the gate. Scarlett tore bread, ate, drank, and burped again, longer this time, the sound bouncing off the iron. She patted the top of her belly and looked Sara in the eye. "You stepped on my dirt," Scarlett said. She lifted the chain badge off her chest and let it drop against her stomach with a flat clang. "Read the marks. This is my road. My porch. My man." Sara opened her mouth. Scarlett drank the third bottle straight down and burped over whatever Sara meant to say. The sound went on. Scarlett kept her eyes locked on Sara's face the whole way through. She finished with a small one, polite, almost a laugh. Sara's jaw worked. She tried a burp of her own. It came out thin. Scarlett smiled and ate more bread. Sara took a step back. Her heel pressed into the wet ground and left a clean print in the crust. She turned and walked into the trees without a word. Scarlett stayed at the gate until the last bottle was empty. She walked over to the fresh print Sara had left and set her own bare foot beside it. Hers sank deeper. She went home with the badge swinging against her belly and the crate under her arm. The man would come back at dusk. Sara would not be waiting on the porch this time. Scarlett had cleared her own road. Keeping him was still the harder part.