Grilling Lessons

I'm at the pool fumbling with an umbrella. My permanent lack of comfort here has me permanently sunglassed and I smell like classic Dude Stew, body odor, suntan lotion and vape fumes. The inside of my mouth is 40 grit sandpaper, bumpy-dry.

I look up and see A Dad walk up to the grill. Confident. He reaches into his cooler, takes out a package of chicken breasts, tears it open with his teeth, unwraps it, and drops it directly on the grates. No seasoning aside from the pink scum he didn't wash off the meat, which is slow dripping onto the pan beneath like a nightmare version of the off-the-elbow ice cream drip from a summer boardwalk cone.

Glop. Glop. Glop.

I think it can't get any worse until I see him reach down to ignite the flames.

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