SCRAMBLED EGGS

[What follows is a continuing story - EXERCISE: START HERE - (merely an operative title) which commenced February 19, 2021. After getting caught up I'd invite you to subscribe to receive all forthcoming "fresh entries" still tended and emerging. Thanks]

He fumbled through the cupboards and found a pan and some butter in the fridge. There were a few eggs left in the styrofoam container, a bag of cheddar cheese and just enough milk that he sniffed before stirring into the skillet. He stood at the stove whisking the lightly browned butter which got bubbly as Fred came in to sniff his bottom, happily panting and dancing for a trip outside. Fred was telling him he had to pee but he only spoke with Zoe after all and so promised a Frisbee toss soon while the butter turned into more of a sauce he was used to calling it.

Well Fred, I hear the French like their eggs this way anyway. He lost track of the butter almost routinely and he hoped Laura wouldn't mind a little extra flavor. She got in so late it was early, he thought. Around 4:30 AM.

Why didn't she just sleep there, he wondered.

Before heading to sleep she had put ice in the freezer and orange juice was right up front when he went in to check for eggs. He made toast with a fresh loaf she left on the counter. It felt good repaying the favor of a good dinner and he thought it would help to give them a chance to catch up on all that had been happening for her the night before with her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend, he said to himself. Why wouldn't she be there for her boyfriend? Although I do kinda wish I hadn't shared that one piece from my spiral. She hadn't even understood exactly how impacted I was when the Poppy drew me in that one strange and powerful night. He thought more chess would also lead to a little more explanation of why she had sent the enigmatic image in the first place. It was large, so beautiful; it's enchanting power so hard to convey.

An epiphany can be a lonely thing sometimes, he thought while scraping the last of the soft egg curds into a large white porcelain serving dish shaped into a chickens head at the end for a handle. He also remembered some words from his old friend Jack about how after all is said and done the ineffable is really the only thing ever worth writing about. Still, he wished he hadn't quite opened the vault, especially now having found out about a serious boyfriend.

I do think she said boyfriend. She did say dating, I know that. Seeing? I've been seeing someone, she said. He was pretty sure of that.

Then turning to the table and chairs behind him he saw her sitting there as though she'd been there quite a few minutes.

I was muttering to myself, he thought, good Lord I've been sitting here talking to myself while she snuck in without my noticing.

She sat facing him on the wooden chair with her knee locked up under her chin, her bottom foot tucked in, a finger feeling around the unpainted nail of a pinky toe wearing an oversized pair of boxers and a torn gray t-shirt from the Catholic University of America. He noticed freckles, the dimple at the side of her usual half smile.

Something was smelling really good down here and I had to come check it out.

Probably the toast, he said. The coffee? He picked up a mug and waved it toward her offering and she raised her eyebrows yes.

Do you know how long it's been since I've woken up to the smell of breakfast?