Gerald was a man of desultory habits — he wandered through Tuesdays without purpose, drifted through Wednesdays without ambition, and spent most Thursdays staring at the ceiling fan. The one thing that could rouse him from this fog was his neighbor's barbecue.
Every Saturday, the heavenly smell drifted over the fence like a personal insult. Gerald had a sneaking admiration for his neighbor Dave's grilling skills, though he'd sooner eat his lawn chair than admit it out loud.
This particular Saturday, Gerald made his move. He was, despite appearances, a stout man — not just in body, which was considerable, but in resolve. He could commit to a mission when ribs were involved.
He crept along the fence, convinced he was invisible. He was not invisible. He was a large man in a fluorescent yellow shirt.
"Gerald." Dave's voice came from directly behind him.
Gerald froze. "I'm inspecting the fence for rot."
"You have your hand in my cooler."
Gerald looked down. He did, in fact, have his hand in the cooler.
Before Dave could declare himself the despoiler of Gerald's dignity, Gerald pulled out a rib, took a bite, and his eyes went wide. It was impossibly succulent — the meat practically dissolved, smoky and rich and borderline criminal.
"Gerald," Dave said slowly, "did you just moan?"
"Absolutely not," Gerald said, taking another bite.
Dave crossed his arms. "You can just come over and ask."
Gerald considered this for a long, serious moment. "But then I'd have to talk to you."
Dave handed him a plate anyway.