Scott bounced on the ball of his feet eagerly, rubbing his hands together as if he was praying for heat. Shirtless and alone, he waited for the lazy, mechanical beeping to signal his night was in order. Aside from the usual accompaniment of muffled Barry White warbling from the lo-fi speaker in the center of the room, he had arranged for an unusually high table to be delivered from IKEA—as Scott was taller than most men, it was necessary for him to outsource his business to the Swedish. He was contemplating what to do with his free Alan wrench when the microwave let loose its hazy alarm. He opened the machine and, with a clean oven mitt, carefully coddled and placed the object on the center of the table.

Barry White serenaded him while he corkscrewed a thick, deep hole into the warmed watermelon. He put two fingers deep inside, gingerly plucking the black seeds from their resting places, and threw them on the floor.

With Barry singing only to him, he removed his belt and dropped his pants.