Jon is vain, and his vanity spurs on subtlety.
He sits on the bench, slightly hunched over, the elastic band of his boxers peeking out slightly over his bathing suit. No one has noticed the slight suggestion of a curve resting on his hip bone, the slight softness under his navel or the general ripeness his body exudes.
But Jon is completely conscious of it, of every line of his body. At first. So he pulls out a paper plate, fills it halfway with oily potatoes, the closest thing to a diet food. Meanwhile his friends fill up. Everyone is athletic, thin really, but no one has a body like Jon had. On the most fit guys, the most carefree, the most masculine, there's a layer of lively flesh that arcs over the v of their hips or their bathing suits. But some of the others have filled out, their tan stomachs round and completely smooth except for a hairy trail down the middle and a deep belly button. These latter are constantly touching their stomachs, waving at them, attempting to hide it , but their nervous looks only emphasize the round redness of their cheeks.
Jon finished his potatos and took another and then another. They were just potatoes, and so no one noticed his rapidly increasing appetite and Jon lost conciousness of the gentle creep of his stomach.
Soon the other guys went to toss around a football. The girls went to watch, to scamper about, to compare their own meager bodies with the virility of their counterparts'. With no one to watch, Jon filled his plate, and then another. He tore off fried edges with abandon, shoved down brownies, refused to count calories.
He went up for his sixth serving, his heart racing and then a shot of adrenaline when he realized the food was finished. Only crumbs at the bottom of those tins. He still couldn't resist, dipped his finger in the grease picked up some crumbs and licked his finger. With the same hand he adjusted his bathing suit, which had slowly lost its parallel course along the top of his light blue shorts.
Jon touched his stomach, which had neevr seemed fuller. Looking over his shoulder at the game, hearing the shouts of his friends, Jon was embarrassed. He waded in th pool for five minutes, then, afraid someone might see him when he inevitably had to leave, pulled on a shirt, which wet, clung to his body. He excused himself, blamed his mom, drove home, hand on his stomach.
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