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Grace sat at a tablecloth made from fine linen, ignored a menu with gold leaf on the edges, and didn’t think even a little bit about how much this meal was going to cost. She ignored the beautiful view of the hotel beach (where she had recently had a traumatizing experience that she’d rather forget) to scroll mindlessly on her phone, texting friends and buying new clothes online. They were all sized for a petite woman like her. She was thin, thank you very much. She would spend no time “inflating” tonight. She’d had plenty of that so far.
She was beautiful and blonde. So beautiful and blonde that no one bothered to tell her she was terribly underdressed for the establishment, in a pair of acid-washed jeans and a white tank top, where every other woman wore rented dresses and fancy blouses.
She was interrupted from her scrolling by the waiter, a young man in a vest and bowtie. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, trying to appear polite while also trying to signal that he had, in fact, been standing there for a good minute or so before he was noticed.
“How are you this afternoon, madam?”
She continued her text. She was breaking up with some guy and he was being very annoying about it.
“I’m fine. I want, like, a caesar salad.”
“Ah, we actually do not have caesar salads. We do have-”
She groaned. “Just make me one. Do you not know how or something? It’s easy. I think.”
The waiter tried to gesture to the menu, but realized how fruitless it was, as the woman before him was so utterly locked onto her phone that he was certain she’d never looked at the menu since arriving.
“Unfortunately, we are a fine dining restaurant and are unable to-”
“Oh my GOD...” she set her phone down and gave a token effort at looking at the menu. “So many words... I’m not reading this, just make me a caesar salad, okay? It’s literally not that hard.”
Usually, she’d try to do the thing she did for everyone; push her boobs together a little, maybe make a pouty face, but she was so focused on her phone, and just wanted this stupid waiter to do what she wanted.
“Madam, I’m very sorry-”
“Oh my god, just make it. You’ll be sorry when my father buys this stupid place and has you fired. Go.” she gestured him away with her hand. “I want a caesar salad with grilled chicken, thank you very much.”
The waiter bit his lip. It was a well-bitten lip.
“Yes, madam. Right away.”
***
“Here you are madam, a caesar salad.” Julio set it in front of her. It was expertly plated and looked delicious, with buttery croutons, crunchy lettuce, and plenty of dressing.
Grace didn’t look up.
“Mmhmm. Glad you figured it out.”
Julio grit his teeth.
“Yes, madam. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
She slid her empty water cup over to him. He refilled it, and she, of course, didn't look up.
Grace began to eat, taking messy bites as she focused on the text conversation. This guy just wasn’t getting the hint. She blocked him and finally put her phone down, focusing on the eating.
It tasted fine. She’d had a lot of salads in her day, and this one ranked somewhere in the middle. They were probably going to charge her a lot for the “custom order” even though all restaurants should have a caesar salad. She didn’t care about the cost, really, but it was the principle of the thing. Maybe she’d slip a hair into her food and try to get it free.
She worked her way through, bite after bite, looking out at the hotel skyline. She’d missed most of the sunset, which was a shame. She wanted to take pictures for social media. That stupid waiter boy really should have alerted her that the sun was going down. She’d say something to the hostess on the way out.
Grace finished her salad quickly and washed it down with some water. There really was a little too much dressing on it, another thing she’d have to mention. Maybe she’d leave an online review.
She reached into her purse for one of her dad’s credit cards. When she looked down, she noticed that she looked a little different.
It was her stomach.
Once again, she had inflated.
“What?!” she shouted, a little too loud. Some people looked over.
“I-I-I barely ate anything! I had a little salad! Just lettuce!” she whispered.
Her stomach gurgled and cramped, as if in response.
“Ow... what the HELL!??!”
Of the recent inflations Grace had suffered, this one was the least intense. Her stomach wasn’t taut and spherical like it had been on the plane or on the beach. It wasn’t like she’d been inflated by a bike pump, no, it was like it was...
...something she ate.
“That stupid waiter!” she rasped, throwing her napkin on the table and standing up. She was going to have words. He must have slipped something into her food, some sort of poison or something, to get back at her for her perfectly reasonable request. People stared as she walked by, but she didn’t care. All these times she had no one to be angry at, but now, there was someone to blame for her bloating. She tried to project confidence as her swollen stomach tightened her jeans.
She threw open the door to the kitchen.
“Where is that waiter?!” she asked.
“Ma’am, you can’t be back here-” a chef said. She slipped right past him and into the lounge area, finding Julio drinking from a water cooler. He stared at her stomach, which was beginning to poke out from under her tank top.
“Hello, boy.” (he was the same age as her) “Admiring your little prank?”
“Uh... sorry?”
The chefs were moving closer, but seemed unsure of what to do. Most of them just continued their jobs.
“What. Did you. Put. In my. Salad?’
“I’m... I’m a waiter, ma’am. I’ve never touched the make line.”
“What did you tell them to put in it, then? Cause this is not NORMAL.” she pulled up her tank top and slapped herself on the stomach, causing it to ripple. Her belly was loose and jiggly. It seemed to expand a tiny bit, and Grace felt a bubble of gas moving through her. “What did you do to me?” she said as she slapped her stomach again
“Ma’am, I didn’t poison you if that’s what you mean.”
“I am INFLATING.” As if to demonstrate, her belly swelled visibly. “What else could it possibly be?!”
“Oh my GOD.” One of the chefs suddenly barged into the conversation, sticking his knife into the cutting board and turning. “Bloating, cramping, gas? Those are your symptoms?”
Grace blushed a little. “No, no gas-”
The chef cleaned off his hands with a rag and poked Grace in the middle of her stomach. She loudly farted, then belched, then farted again.
BRLLLLLfFPPPT
UURRRPRLP
Bllrrrprp
Her belly visibly deflated from the pressure release.
“Lady, you’re lactose intolerant. My wife is the same way.”
“Y-yes, I knew that. Of course I knew that.” Another fart squeaked out, interrupting her. She tried to raise her voice over it. “But I didn’t have (BrrrPLlrp) DAIRY, you idiot..”
“Yes, you did. I made the damn salad.”
“So you poisoned me? Made me into this farting balloon?!”
“Poisoned you? I put parmesan cheese and caesar dressing on your caesar salad, you blimp. That’s how caesar salads come at any restaurant on the planet.”
“O-oh. Well, I should have been warned. I’m going to take this up with-”
Suddenly, her eyes went wide. She laid a hand on her belly, which bloated out a good inch.
An ominous rumble was heard by everyone in the kitchen.
Then, it bloated another inch. Then another. Her jeans puckered, then the button exploded, pinging off of a stock pot and ricocheting against the wall. Her gas-filled belly jiggled slightly. It had been flat less than ten minutes ago. She really never had digested dairy well.
“I said... I will take this up... with- ugh your- uRghk...”
“Get out of my kitchen before you pop.” The chef said.
“I’m going to call! I’m going to make all of you pay for-”
BRRRRrrrrLLLRLRLRLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAfpfprp!
The smell of rotting milk radiated through the entire kitchen. Everyone reacted, gagging or covering their faces with napkins. Grace opened her mouth to say something, then realized she couldn’t think of anything at all.
So she smoothed out her tank top, pulled her jeans together with one hand, and walked out of the restaurant with what little remained of her dignity.