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“Thanks Sally-Anne for keeping me and Lucas a secret from dad. If he found out, I’m sure he’d… well you remember how mad he got when they cancelled the monster truck derby?” Madison said, hugging her boyfriend while at Burgermania.

“Well, you keep bringing me the food, and I’ll keep keeping the secrets” Sally-Anne says in a clearly exaggerated fat suit that gave her multiple chins and made her arms, legs and stomach too stiff to move from padding.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Sweeney loved that bit of the episode. The moment Sally-Anne committed. Sure, the weight gain was exaggerated and clearly padded, but it was the idea that was most palpable to the thin teacher. The idea. She wasn’t even quite sure what the idea was, or even if it had a name. It lay in abstraction in the back of her mind, always there but never there. She knew what it was that turned her on, but she just couldn’t put her finger on it. It was like that cringey art comment of “I couldn’t say what I like, but I know it when I see it”.

Maybe it was the greed. It seemed antonymous to the girl so slavishly beholden to abstinence, but the greed of it may be the appeal. The more of it all. Maybe that was why she was eating potato chips, despite having just arrived back from the diner. Despite having just eaten a burger with fries and a sundae. Despite it being gone midnight on a workday. But there was something appealing about the sheer excess of it. She didn’t need to eat, but she wanted to anyway.

Or maybe it was the taboo. The naughtiness of sitting in that reclining chair in front of her television, watching an old videotape of a 90’s children’s show, with one hand down where her knickers would be, had she not already discarded them. The naughtiness of knowing she needed to sleep ready for an early start and long day tomorrow, and that she normally would be asleep over an hour ago, but instead she was flying closer and closer to the sun, for the Icarus thrill of it all. To know that she might get caught out. That one of these days, a colleague might comment or a student might make a joke at her expense, or Beatrice might raise the subject. The looming threat of being caught being naughty.

Or maybe it was the transformation. The evolution. The shedding of her skin by the adding of a layer. To know where she was, and to know where she is, and to know that the distance between can never be reconciled. Just drifting apart. Two paths diverging. To know there was, just four months ago, 111lbs scattered across the husk of her 5ft8 body, and now there are a further 24lbs deposited thinly life butter across bread. She could knead the bready dough of her stomach with one hand and revel in its transformation while her other hand went to work down below. What would her colleagues say if they saw her now? Something cruel, she hoped.

Sweeney was as committed as Sally-Anne now. That was why she, at 1am, decided to go fetch a second pack of potato chips. Her alarm was due to go off in less than six hours and she was eating them anyway. How greedy. How taboo. How transformative. In just a nightie, she lay down and continued watching Burgermania and continued eating her chips.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Sally-Anne, Madison? You’re late! Again!” the teacher said sternly.

“Sorry sir. We got caught up in traffic, real bad tailback due to the roadworks on the 42.” Madison reeled off.

“Oh fair enough… wait a second! You walk to school!” the teacher realised, and the laughter kicked in. “That’s it. Detention, after class. The pair of you”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Sweeney didn’t hear the shrieking hark of her alarm clock, its shrill call. While it pulsated in an uncomfortable pitch, Sweeney continued sleeping peacefully and contentedly. This might partly be attributed to tiredness, the insulating comfort of deep sleep, but it was more likely because she hadn’t alit to bed. The rising pitch and volume emanating harshly from her bedroom had not yet traversed across to the slovenly mess in the living area that she was sprawled within. She was stone cold in her reclining chair, with a pillow up the top of her nightie, a hand between her legs, and potato chips in her hair. And it was 6:47am.

And it was 6:52am.

And it was 6:57am.

And her chest rose and fell serenely.

And it was 7:01am

And it was 7:09am.

It was a stroke of good fortune that a car back-fired just outside Sweeney’s apartment not long afterwards. She stood up sharply upon hearing the guttural explosion from beyond yonder window, knowing immediately that something was wrong. The room was too bright, there was too much light coming from between the sliver of the pair of closed curtains. She glanced at her phone and hoped her instincts had been very wrong. The 7:16 that the screen displayed told her that she was very very right. Sweeney was running late.

She threw the pillow away and rushed to her wardrobe in hobbled panic. No. No. This was wrong. This couldn’t happen. No. Why did this have to happen? Why had she done this to herself? She grabbed the first pair of work pants that she could get frantic hands on, threw off her nightie, and started getting changed. The pants were immediately a discomfort, just pulling them up over her de-sinewed legs, but once she got to her cherry-shaped butt she realised that trying to surmount these petite globes behind her was futile. Her clothes had been getting tighter and tighter of these past months, contorting around her frame constrictively, and she hadn’t been in denial over that fact. Far from it. She’d been enjoying it. Enjoying the strain of the buttons, the suffocation around her arms, the jostling just to squeeze within them. It made her feel brave, daring and sexy. Feelings that she wasn’t accustomed to. But here, she cursed those exhilarating rushes because her libidinous impulses were going to make her late for work.

And so it was all her fault. All her fault. All her fucking fault. She sat on her beg with pants that didn’t go all the way up, and started sobbing. The feelings, the realisations, the guilt. They all hit her like a jackhammer. This had all been her doing. Her habits, her indulgences. She’d flown too close to the sun, and now she was in freefall. What the hell was she thinking? That this was a fictional show and that there wouldn’t be any real world consequences? That this was Burgermania? This was always going to happen. How had she not seen this coming? It was always going to happen. These problems had been growing and growing in the background and rather than confronting them, she watched them with yearning. This was the long overdue comeuppance for her sacrificing her diligence with fetishism. All of her discipline, all of her painstaking martial discipline, thrown away in a superficial instant. Why couldn’t she just have bought the next size up like a normal person? That’s all it would have taken. Or save her debauched nights to a weekend like a normal person. But no. Oh no. Not her. Not Sweeney. And The Dread was back, and she could feel the fur of it in her lungs.

She couldn’t keep doing this. This wantonness. This hedonism. Playtime was over. She couldn’t sacrifice everything for her kink. This was the real world, she had real duties, real responsibilities. This was an aberration. It had to be. An exercise in doing the wrong thing. A wake up call to do the right thing. She couldn’t keep doing this. And once more for those thoughts in the back. She couldn’t keep doing this to herself.

She changed to her loosest work pants with the resolve never to put herself in this position again. Even these ones, charcoal grey as opposed to the charcoal black she would normally adorn, were flexing every inch of give that the material provided. Her legs swelled within its cloth confines to preclude any pockets of air, and the zipper still felt the strain of the outward gradient that the softly sloping stomach so sumptuously provided. Her pockets, and the great thing about slacks were the pockets, were so inaccessibly tight that she could barely squeeze her hand in them. And then to her buttonless top, a sensible shout given the tendency she had recently to strain them. It vacuum-sealed over the contours of her waist, while a cardigan was thrown over the top to protect her dignity and conceal the vanilla strip of skin where the top and the pants didn’t quite meet.

And then she marched out of her apartment, no time to do anything else. No time to brush her hair, though she had a brush at her desk so she’d be able to do it at some point during the day, and not time to fix up her face. No tie to make lunch or eat breakfast. No, she just marched out the door with a breathless flurry. She couldn’t be late, she couldn’t be late, she couldn’t be late.

She was late. But not by much. Enough for the principal to ask her to stay behind after class, but not so late that the kids noticed. Out of breath from speed-walking, with her diaphragm and lungs expanding and then contracting heavily, painfully, and her stomach pulsing to that rhythm. Sweating from the pace of her journey, no delicate beads but a broader level of moisture like rising damp smearing her forehead with a gentle glisten. Even her top had the darkened stains of over-exertion, though they were fortunately protected by the swaddling cardigan over the top.

The day was long, and haunting, with the spectre of being called to the principal’s office hanging over her like a misbehaving student. How would she excuse her lateness? Over-slept was not enough of an excuse. Staying up late fingering herself most certainly wasn’t an excuse. So the dread that smouldered around her as she scoured her mind for excuses drew to the day down to a crawl. And what would he say of her appearance. She knew he would have noticed. The 25lbs were hard to overlook, taking her scraggly frame to something more substantive. Veiling over it with an over-sized cardigan mitigated it, but he knew what she’d done. He knew. He must do. And this was why it had to end. No more over-indulgence. No more diner. Back on the straight and narrow. Emphasis on the narrow. The fun had to end.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Urgh! I can’t believe I have detention! Detention is so boring” Sally-Anne complained.

“I know, I was supposed to be seeing Lucas tonight. I hate being held responsible for my actions… it’s just so unfair!” Madison agreed, and a trickle of automated amusement supported her words.

“I can so relate. I have a date of my own!” Sally-Anne said, to the ‘ooooo’ of the audience. “With a little fella I like to call the Burgermania quarter pounder”

“Well, let’s skip it then. I mean, sometimes you just gotta stick it to the man!” Madison said, in a way that felt like the writer’s libertarian political opinions seeping into the show.

“Alright… Che Guevara!” Sally-Anne said, as if the show’s young audience would know who that was.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

This had to be the last time.

Sweeney sat down in Principal Iashvilli’s office, and fidgeted as she waited. He was still out on the forecourt, watching the plague of children scuttle away, but she was in his office like a misbehaving student sent to his office. Sweeney was never very good at hiding her anxiety. She had this weird tick that saw her run her hand aggressively through her hair. She would scrunch her hand into a ball, grabbing clumps of her squid-ink hair. She would feel the roots of it straining, like tight buttons on her blouse, against the pull of her anguished and frustrated hand. She was so angry with herself. All she could do was replay all of yesterday’s decisions, all of the past month’s decisions. Her grip tightened as she went through each time she decided that the path she was on was the right one. This indulgence, this recklessness. Her hand tensing.

This had to be the last time.

“Ahhh, Sweeney Stallone, sorry for the delay. Don’t worry this is just a quick word” Principal Iashvilli said with a kind smile. Sweeney offered him the most slender upturn of lip as her best approximation of smiling that she could muster whilst caught in her own emotional turbulence.

This had to be the last time.

“Thanks Georgi” she said, at a volume that couldn’t be heard over a pin dropping. Her head had drooped towards the floor, and the words got lost in the carpet.

This had to be the last time

“Look, this is not a disciplinary or anything like that. I’m here because I’m concerned for you. Not about your teaching, about your well-being. Since the teaching inspection, you’ve seemed to have taken it a little hard. Which is fine. It shows you care. But, look… you can’t keep this up Sweeney. It’s not the attendance, it’s… this” Georgi pointed at her, curled up into a self-conscious ball and subtly clawing at her own hair. He was calling her out. He was calling her out on all of it. Oh dear god, Sweeney’s thoughts were spiralling.

This had to be the last time. This had to be the last time.

“You look terrible”

This had to be the last time. This had to be the last time.

“You look tired. You look panicked. You look sick. Like, you’ve got the flu or something. Your eyes are all puffy, you look pale… more pale than usual." And she'd even put on weight. I mean, they'd all noticed. How could they not. Surely he was thinking it. Were his eyes scanning her body as he said it? Noticing the puffy out midriff beneath her clothes? He was judging her, she could tell. She knew it. He was. He was.

And there it was. The meteor impact. This had to be the last time. This was about her weight. He said that she looked unwell but this was about her weight. She didn't need confirmation. Right? It was all he could possibly be thinking about. Right? This had to be the last time. Surely everyone had noticed. Mr Tavistock must have done a double-take as she walked past him in the corridor. Mrs Coolidge must have rolled her eyes at Sweeney’s increased width, and lamented how casually the young dispose of their own beauty. No, this had to be the last time. And yet her legs were tightening. No, stop it. This had to be the last time. But the thought was sparking in her head. Her worries, her doubts, The Dread, they were being drowned out by other thoughts. The same thoughts that got her into this mess. No. No. No. She had to stop it, this had to be the last time. And yet, seeing Georgi Iashvilli look her up and down and decide her weight gain warranted an intervention… the muscles in her neck tightened.

“Yeah, I know” she muttered, with shame. And the shame felt flammable.

“And I only say this from a health perspective, but you have to look after yourself. Because it’s impacting on your teaching. So, what I propose is a plan of action, okay? I just want you to confirm that you’re going to get back on the straight and narrow. Right? Just come in and attack the day. Because there aren’t an infinite supply of second chances, okay? This has to be the last time” he said, and his kindness sounded rallying, but the words skirted past Sweeney. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She liked this too much. She wanted this too much. Fuck it. Fuck it all. Fuck routine. Fuck discipline. Fuck The Dread. Fuck hating going to school, hating being at school and then hating coming home from school. Fuck doing what other people want. Fuck looking after herself. Fuck being healthy. Fuck the straight and narrow. Sometimes you just gotta stick it to the man.

“This has to be the last time” she lied.

This was not going to be the last time.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

“I gotta say Sally-Anne, you’re looking kinda… big these days” Madison said to her sister.

“What do you mean? You’re just jealous that I have curves” Sally-Anne retorted.

“Gee sister, not every curve has to be an outward one!” Madison got the laughter track on that line. “And why would I be jealous? I have a boyfriend”

“Well, give me five minutes and so will I”

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Being called out by the school principal, by her boss, really didn’t have the effect on Sweeney that he intended. It didn’t bring about introspection and resolve. It brought about gasoline and then it brought about a match. Sweeney felt intoxicated by the thrill of what he had said to her, and what the other teachers thought of her, and she wanted more of it. More of their judgement, their consternation, their disapproval, their concern. She wanted more. And then she wanted more some more.

She walked out of the school at the same speed that she had entered it. But it wasn’t out of fear this time, nor panic, nor concern. It was out of ambition. She figured she had the chance to turn around if she wanted, like Principal Iashvilli had asked. To right her ship. To rectify her situation. And she figured that she had the chance to continue. And she chose the latter. So she wasn’t charging out of school in desperation, but in hope and desire, with a skip in her step and a burning in her loins. And with the intention of buying chocolate cake.

That had been the start of it, as much as anything else. Her birthday cake. Slabs of chocolate frosting, chocolate sponge and chocolate sprinkles. It tasted like diabetes. It tasted like tooth decay. It tasted like calories. And it tasted wonderful. She had two slices for breakfast the day that followed that birthday. Not a banana, nor a pear, nor an orange. Nothing as anaemic as fruit for Sweeney. Two slices of chocolate cake. This was who she was now, this was who she wanted to be. The kind of girl who eats two slices of chocolate cake for breakfast.

And this change subverted her entire outlook on life. Because the gruelling trudge at work was now sandwiched with the indulgence that energised her. Going to school with chocolate cake in her stomach meant that The Dread never had time to manifest, she was immediately enraptured by the thrill of decadence. Each day would start with decadence, end with decadence and she just had to endure the stifling slog in between. The patience-wearing commotion of a classroom of kids all committed to making her life difficult seemed breezier with cake in her stomach. Another two weeks passed, and the claws of life and work seemed blunted now. Sweeney felt padded.

And knowing that her growing was being noticed. It was in there that lay the real thrill. Principal Iashvilli had slipped and revealed that her transformation had not been unnoticed, and now she had something to work towards. Not every top that she wore was appropriately fitting, not every pair of pants could remain done up through the course of a day. She was another 5lbs up since her meeting with the principal, and what must other people think?

What most Beatrice think?

They had only gotten closer, the more frequently the diner was frequented. Beatrice was a balm of calm and a sprite of light to the anxious Sweeney, always warm and compassionate. Always polite. But was that why she never mentioned it? Was she too polite? Sweeney could imagine Beatrice being the kind of considerate woman beholden to tact. Or was it that the looser fitting clothes that Sweeney encompassed her softer frame, simply disguise it? She needed to find out. After those words from the principal swarming in her brain, she didn’t want, she needed to know what her only friend thought.

And so she made the march down to the diner again. Dressed down in clothes fit for little beyond lounging around. Head down as the March wind numbed her facial extremities. And towards that lazy glow of weak neon lighting. She hurried in to escape the late Winter chill and sat at the same booth that she always did, and savoured the warmth of the place upon her numb face.

“Beatrice? Can I ask you a question?” Sweeney asked without an iota of confidence. Even with Beatrice, even after all of this time, confidence was made with feeble strands that broke to easily. It was simply the way that Sweeney had been born. Whoever her birth parents were, they donated crappy genes.

Sweeney hadn’t changed since her shift at school, it all helped with blurring the lines between work and her life outside of it. Another cardigan draped over her like a poncho, veiling the blouse that was rolling up to reveal her belly button, and draping over the work pants whose zipper could not fasten. It all felt so delightfully perilous, so close to being found out. The danger of being caught. It as a cheap thrill, but Sweeney was grateful just to be thrilled at all.

“Sure darling” Beatrice said, with a friendly smile. The diner was hollowed out of custom, just Sweeney and some old bloke at the other end of the joint occupied Beatrice’s time.

“I wanted to know… oh, I don’t know how to say this… I’ve been putting on some weight?” Sweeney couldn’t make eye-contact as the words left her mouth. It was the first time she’d ever said the phrase out loud. Gained weight. It tripped over her tongue like when she swore as a kid for the first time, unnatural and clunky. Gained weight. That was what she had been doing, but somehow saying made it feel so much worse than when the idea remained elusively in abstraction in her head.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that...”

“Intentionally” Sweeney added, with a gulp. And now there was nowhere to hide. She’d come out of the closet that had been her home for her entire life. There was no do-overs, no mulligans, no rewrites. This was it. The truth was out there. Sweeney Stallone had been gaining weight intentionally. Her darkest shame was now cast into the light.

“Oh?” Beatrice said, taken a little aback.

“Wait… what?” Sweeney had played this conversation in her head a million times, trying to fathom out every possible way that it could play. And at no point had she anticipated that reply from her. There was always feedback, a response, a thoughtful consideration. She expected judgement. Surely she wanted to say something but was concerned of hurting her feelings. That was what she expected to say. A real friend would have been worrying about her. Be panicked with concern. Stage an intervention? I mean, surely it was a cry for help. Why wasn't Beatrice staging an intervention? Oh, that was a thought that Sweeney didn't want to swallow. That was a thought she wanted to continue swilling around like saliva in her mouth.

“An intervention!” Sweeney’s face lit up. And suddenly all that guilt and self-doubt dissipated in a lake of arousal. Was she really intervention-worthy? Beatrice had noticed. Surely. She was her friend, after all, and she had noticed. She didn't need to say, Sweeney knew that Beatrice had noticed. It was etched on the granite of her face. Not only had she noticed, she had worried. Each pound had elicited concern as Sweeney’s skeletal frame found itself lost under a tempura batter. That felt so good to know. Her weight gain wasn’t just noticable, it was worrisome.

“So are you okay, honey?” Beatrice asked, with a confused smile on her face.

“Umm...” Sweeney contorted awkwardly at the question. Was she okay? I mean, why was she doing it? It was so confusing. How do you answer why you're intentionally gaining weight? Because, that was what she was asking. Right? So, what did other people say in this situation? What was more embarrassing, that she was attracted to bigger girls, or that she was attracted to herself? It all sounded so weird to her all of a sudden. Her vocabulary melted into a puddle and all the words she needed felt lost. This thought had roosted in her brain since childhood, but she still didn’t know how to put it into words. “Because it makes me feel good”

“Well, I gotta say Sweeney, as long as you're happy?” Beatrice said, not really understanding. But not judging either. That wasn't a judgmental look. It was a kind look. A conscientious look. It was how Sweeney imagined a maternal look might be. Yes, Beatrice was concerned, on a maternal level. Sweeney was like a poor doe in the headlights always, and Beatrice would have no intention of scaring her off with judgement. Whatever it was that Sweeney wanted, that would be enough for Beatrice's support. Even this. Whatever it was.

“Thanks Beatrice!” Sweeney said with a gulp of air as she gasped with gratitude. Relief trickled through her gently, calming her inflamed nerves. “So, um… could I have a burger and fries, with a sundae please?”

“Are you sure that’s all?” Beatrice joked

“Oh, um… actually… maybe two burgers?” Sweeney seized upon it like a flock of seagulls on a picnic, obtusely overlooking the humorous intention of Beatrice’s question. To her credit, Sweeney watched Beatrice just laugh some more at this little girl letting herself go. And Sweeney looked forward to spending her Monday this way.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Hey handsome” Sally-Anne said to the good-looking young boy by the lockers

“Whatever” the boy said, walking off and leaving her.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

Every day now was structured round this sexual thrill. It began with chocolate cake for breakfast, creamy and clotted as she greedily gorged on it on those hurried mornings. It ended with a gorging session at the diner, with burgers that ran wet with grease. And now it also middled with a lunch that had now exceeded her measly sandwich and fruit combination. Now it was a jaunt to Subway. 6 inch? Actually, could you make it a footlong? Bread? Hearty Italian. Filling? Meatball marinara. Or maybe Italian BMT. Oh, and extra cheese. And yes, melted. With all the extras except the olives, because nobody likes olives. For sauce? Ranch dressing and mayo, if that’s alright. Cookies? Don’t mind if I do. 3? Nah, make it 5. Plus Coke, because only Neanderthals opt of Pepsi.

It was punctuating her day, intersecting it with a new, additional thrill. Did the teachers notice? Or judge? Or care? Sweeney hoped they did. She hoped they saw her and tutted. What happened to that girl? She used to be so thin, so pretty, so disciplined, they might think as they look through their window to see a newly chubby teacher hurry round the corner to coerce yet further calories into her burgeoning stomach. She’s really letting herself go, they might think. At this rate, she’ll get huge, they might say. And they’d be right.

She would end each day in front of the mirror, and pour over each pore for changes. Scrutinise every loosening of skin, every pocket of pudge. She would breathe in and out with a side on view, and pretend it was a before and after photo. It tickled her to know that when she breathed in, she still looked the same scrawny self. She tickled herself when she breathed out, and see her stomach hang over her waistband.

“Hey handsome” she said to herself, twirling to see herself fully. To see each protruding element. And by April, each element protruded yet more. Up another 11lbs to 151. The mirror showed her a softer face, a chin less aggressive and cheekbones less pointed. It showed a softer waist, a glacially curved tor that crumpled into a cattle grid of rolls whenever she sat down. It showed in her softer butt, sloshing about where it all once held firm. It showed in her softer legs, where they arrowed down with tactile pliability.

It played havoc with her discipline. She found herself less responsive to her alarm and the early hours of the day. She found herself having to sacrifice the vanities of hair care and make-up, though they had never been more needed under the greasy diet that clasped her. She found herself struggling in even her new-bought clothes, the more provocative skirt that didn’t even disguise her knees and the blouse whose bottom buttons strained and whose top three buttons remained undone.

And suddenly Sweeney realised she was happy. This was what happiness felt like. At times it felt like bottled pleasure, from concentrate. It felt like orgasms and exhilarations. But there were the times in between, outside the windows of giddiness. They were what told Sweeney that she was happy. She felt… content. A calm contentment with life. The circadian horrors of her job, of her anxiety, of her neurosis, had been gradually ebbing away. Was this what it felt like to be a human? To not have parts of you missing, to not be drowned out by the gremlins in your mind. Is this what everyone else felt as they went about their daily graft, with their shoulders not on fire from the burden they bore? Was this what it felt like to be a human being?

Sweeney should have known better. She chastised herself for forgetting The Dread. For not checking the corner of every room for demons. Height, she had always told herself, was just a place to fall from. Happiness just made the pain hurt more. And somewhere along the lines, she had forgotten this mantra, drawn in by the hullabaloo of this game that she was playing. But everything rots in the end. And everything joyful breaks. Sweeney should have known better. She should have seen this coming.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Hey, I don’t know if you heard, but they’re playing that Jurassic Park movie down at the local movie plaza” Sally-Anne comically trying to look flirtatious with a lollipop but eating it too quickly.

“Yeah, I might go watch that. I love dinosaurs. Especially ones that stomp their feet…”

A musical number starts and everyone in the scene randomly starts singing and dancing along to it, although Sally-Anne is a beat behind them due to her size

#Dinosaurs have great big teeth, go stomp, stomp, stomp

Dinosaurs have great big feet, go chomp, chomp, chomp

Stomp, stomp, stomp and a-chomp, chomp, chomp

Stomp, stomp, stomp and a-chomp, chomp, chomp

Stomp-a-saurus, stomp, stomp

Chomp-a-saurus, chomp, chomp

I’m-a-saurus, stomp, stomp

You’re-a-saurus, chomp, chomp#

“Great, that’s awesome. So what time will you be picking me up?” Sally-Anne asks with a big smile over her face.

“What? No? I’m not picking you up. I’m gonna see that dinosaur movie, it sounds awesome. I love dinosaurs. Especially ones that...” the young boy says.

“Stomp their feet? Yeah, we heard you the first time. No, you need to pick me up, that’s how dates work” Sally-Anne said, to canned giggles.

“A date? With you? I know I said I liked dinosaurs, but I think you may have chomped, chomped, chomped a bit too much” the boy said, walking off as the audience “awwwww”s a crest-fallen Sally-Anne.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*

“Sweeney? Once term wraps up, we need to talk” Mr Iashvilli said to her in a sober tone. And this was how it all came crashing down. He’d given her a lifeline and she’d squandered it. Her hand drifted to the paunch that rested itself on its waistband like a dog might its head on the knee of its owner. He warned her not to gain weight and all she had done since was eat. And this was her reckoning. She may have chomped, chomped, chomped a bit too much.