The Eggs Were Fine, Actually

April twenty-third. The note card is still on the counter. I keep not moving it, which is its own kind of decision. Gerald is trailing a new vine toward the window and the collapsed bowl is catching whatever light the afternoon is willing to spare, and at some point Simone showed up, not because we planned it, just because she had the afternoon off and my address is not a secret, and somewhere in the conversation she opened the fridge, assessed the situation, and said, with genuine confidence, 'I can work with this.'

The 'this' was two eggs, half a block of feta that had been in there since I couldn't tell you when, some wilting scallions, and a heel of bread. Simone treated this like a reasonable foundation. I made coffee while she found the pan.

The thing about Simone in a kitchen is that she is not fussy. She doesn't hover over the eggs. She doesn't ask you how you like them and then do it differently anyway the way some people do. She just cooks them and then leans on the counter with a mug and watches the pan like the pan owes her something. I propped my phone against the fruit bowl mostly because she told me the feta looked good going in, and honestly she was right.

The critical review moment.

We ate standing up at the counter. Simone finished hers directly from the pan, which she did without any commentary or apology, and I found this so specifically her that I took a picture.

Eating from the pan. No notes.

The note card was still there the whole time. We didn't talk about it. That was fine too.