So came the Greasy Man, sliding down the hill over the grass on lard engulfed feet, falling the last few inches to the sidewalk with a sucking sound. His eyes fried perception. His tears salted the golden crust of his cheeks. I wanted to leave before he opened his mouth, but there it was, a cauldron of oil, bubbling, waiting for a word to float to the top and be done. I saw it coming.
“Hello,” came out, a bit overdone. I couldn’t imagine what this lipid little man could want with me. I had only come outside to throw away my missing father’s mustard collection.