Eggs

By: Kennedy Waterman

​

“Good morning,” is what he says, is what he chooses to lead with, after all that, and now I’m crying into my eggs. “Good morning,” (how rich) and the tears come, faster than dignified tears, so fast I’m embarrassed, like they’ve been up there behind my eyes forever, patient tears, like maybe I was supposed to cry a while ago but forgot. So they’re old tears—Jesus, nothing worse than old tears; tears are best new and raw, straight from the packaging, like you’re crying on Christmas. But they’re stale today, tupperware tears, and it’s unfair they’re escaping now, at “good morning,” of all things, because I look weak, probably, crying at nothing. Only I’m not crying at “good morning,” (duh) I’m crying at all the fights and the lies and the dreams and miscommunications, from last week. Boring! And I’m not saying any of this out loud, no no no, so I’m the problem, right, committing further crimes of miscommunication, because now he’ll probably think it’s about “good morning” when it’s really about everything else.

 

         I push my eggs away because I salted them already (ba dum tss).

 

        “Did I say something wrong?” he says, (yes) and I could kill him, I bet, if I had a knife, or a gun, or a backbone, maybe. Instead, I sit spineless. I wax invertebrate. I am a loser mollusk, crying at the breakfast table like it’s my job (six figures). Hello! Someone change the channel, this episode is a rerun.

​

       I decide I won’t try to explain; it won’t be gotten into. Because that would take too long, and it’s 9:00 A.M., and it’s only Tuesday, and he is so unaware of what he’s done (done, doing, going to do) that he’d probably say “huh?” if I told him, and I’ve decided I couldn’t handle that. I can’t do “huh?” today. I’d do fighting or yelling or unraveling—could be fun—but I can’t do explaining. Not before my contacts are in. And so I: Let It Go (Oscar buzz surrounding my performance). It’s the “sensible and mature” choice, because I am nothing if not “sensible and mature.” It’s the “my-heart-sitting-in-shattered-pieces-at-the-bottom-of-my-stomach” choice, really, but I guess I’d rather be shattered than heard. 

 

      I am filled with an existential sadness (it’s 9:00 A.M.), the knowledge that I am truly alone, that everyone experiences the world through their own eyes, not mine, and that something so obvious and devastating to me can pass him right by, unnoticed. I nearly faint at the realization. My head suddenly feels too heavy to think another single thought; I guess my neck is too weak for all my bitterness this morning.

 

     And so I say, “No,” through gritted heartstrings. “Just hormones.” (Bite me). 

 

     I wipe my nose. I reach for my plate.

 

    He says, “Did you make any eggs for me?”