"Mimi hoists the bottle up onto the window. Her shoulders and chest vibrate, wiggling like gelatin, wrapped up tight in a bright orange halter top that keeps sliding down against her slick skin, which is accumulated with the film of a busy Friday in the kitchen."
"The fries hold the fat in their fluffy white cotton of nothing."
"Mimi yells an order to him. Her shoulders are shrouded by a green sweater. Cabrille thinks she must be hot; sweat streams down her face, and she looks like she’s just showered, hair matted and twisted, usually so curly."
"Cindy jogs in tight yoga pants. Her butt looks like two uncooked mounds of dough when she lies naked in the hot mornings."
"Apple pie, crust made with lard. Sweet and spicy pork, deep fried in lard. Sweet Easter Bread, loaves fluffed and drawn into form with lard. Cabrille’s mother found a way to insert it into everything she cooked, the white bricks that softened as they sat on the counter, waxy packaging curling underneath them."
"He simmers in his own sweat, feels his heart rate drop as the tickets stop printing off the wheel."
"He looks down at his apron. The streaks of fat are a mix of old and new."
"The bag is heavy in his hand, weighed down by one of Mindy’s greasy jars, an anchor that tugs on the stretching material. She says it won’t break, but it’s a dollar store garbage bag, so when it bursts only a few yards from the dumpster Cabrille is hardly surprised."