“What’s that?”
“What are you reading?”
“The horrors of mass-produced bread.”
“I bought our bread from an artisan.”
“Big woop.”
“Our bread has the face of the man who made it on the wrapper. His name is Tim Grange.”
“The producers blast the bread with hot air and hydrogenated fat – this artificially inflates the bread – the fat helps the loaf keeps it shape.”
“Not Tim Grange,” I say.
“And they use triple the normal amount of yeast, to get the bread to rise quicker.”
You examine the face of Tim Grange. He is smiling broadly, with uneven rural teeth, betraying none of the struggle you expect from a man living on the bread line. You make this joke internally. Tim Grange’s face is prunish but regal.
You see that sunlight has reached the back of Alex’s knees; it is inches from your feet. You try not to think about Cancer. Alex says you always spoil nice summer days by talking melanoma.
“Chuh,” Alex says, turning a page, starting a chapter entitled: Eggs is eggs.
What do you do?

  1. Ask to move further in to the shade.
  2. Consider cancer.
  3. Ask about eggs.
  4. Apply sun cream.