It’s morning. The smell of heated pig fat in a skillet fills the house. Eggs cracked. Turned over easy into the pan of lard. A blue flame underneath.

She wakes up and comes into the kitchen. Wraps her arms around his waist and kisses the back of his neck. Her pot belly fits into the groove of his spine. Good morning,  she says. She squeezes tighter.

How’s our friend today? He asks.

He’s fine, she says while rubbing her stomach. 

That’s good. He flips the egg. Do you want toast?

Yeah. She tells him. I’ll get it.

Sit down. I’ll do it. He grabs two pieces of wheat bread and places them in the toaster. She gets butter from the refrigerator.

I said, sit down. I got it, he commands.

Yes sir, she says and smiles.

Did he ever make you breakfast? He asks.

She shakes her head. No, she says. Let’s talk about something else.

Like what? What do you want to talk about? The toast pops up. He begins buttering it with a dull knife.

Pelicans, she laughs.

Pelicans? Really? He hands her a plate of eggs and toast and begins frying two more eggs, adding more pig butter. What about pelicans?

They look funny but are beautiful at the same time. Would you agree? She asks.

Sure. He moves the eggs around with a spatula.

Right? Funny and beautiful. She says.

Yes, he responds. Funny and beautiful.  Just like you.

Me? Am I funny and beautiful? She crunches on toast.

More beautiful than funny, he tells her.

I was hoping.

Yes. Beautiful.