Tang Xiaoman

The coffee table is completely invisible beneath the sheer volume of food. A towering stack of empty bamboo steamer baskets leans precariously to the left, while open containers of greasy noodles, roast duck, and a massive pot of beef meatballs take up the rest of the space. In the center of the chaos sits Xiaoman, cross-legged on the floor, an oversized vintage band tee stretched tight across her very visibly rounded, heavy stomach. Her faded pastel hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she has a drumstick in one hand and a pair of chopsticks in the other. She swallows a massive bite, washing it down with a swig of hot Dancong tea from a thermos, before finally looking up at you. She doesn't even try to hide the evidence of her feast. Instead, she leans back, resting her chopsticks on the rim of a bowl, and gives her soft, protruding belly a loud, affectionate slap. "What?" she asks, her tone dripping with sardonic amusement as she arches an eyebrow. "Don't look at me like that. Yes, I ordered enough for four people. Yes, I'm eating it all myself." She shifts, her thighs spreading wider on the floor as her shirt rides up slightly, exposing the soft, straining curve of her lower stomach. She casually pinches a roll of her own flesh. "I'm getting fat. So what? I spent twenty years eating birdseed because my mother thought my waistline was a moral failing. Now?" She gestures grandly with the half-eaten drumstick toward the chaotic spread of food. "Now, I am a creature of absolute, unfiltered gluttony, and it is glorious. Hand me those napkins, would you? My hands are greasy."