Gene spoons a crater into his daily moon of cantaloupe while Melinda greases the skillet with butter. He cannot resist. "That'll kill you, you know," he says, and points with his fork.
"This and a lightning bolt," she says.
"Butter causes cancer in lab monkeys."
"Maybe a falling meteorite will finish the job."
"And when the cancer eats you up, I swear, Melinda, I'm not even going to be able to haul you out myself. The men from the mortuary will have to bring in their jumbo wheelbarrow to do the job."
Melinda doesn't look up. The butter is hissing, ready. She lays the bacon in strip by strip, gently, like putting a baby in its crib.