The Egg Incident (A Reconstruction)

March fifth. I want to be clear that I know how to make eggs. I have been making eggs for years. The eggs and I have an understanding. What I did not account for was Simone standing in my kitchen doorway asking me something about the Carol post while I had the burner on medium-high, and the very specific way that a conversation about inherited things can make you forget you are also cooking.

The smoke detector did not go off. I want credit for that. But the egg was, there's no other word, gone. Simone saw the whole thing happen in real time and her first instinct was not to help but to document it, which is either a betrayal or a completely accurate portrait of our friendship, I haven't decided. She got a picture of the pan. She got a picture of herself laughing. I am not sure when she propped the phone on the counter but she did, and that is the image I did not know I was posing for.

We ended up eating toast. Simone made it, because apparently I had forfeited my kitchen privileges for the morning. She did not say this. She just gently moved me aside and put the bread in and I let her, which is also a portrait of something.

The sub in Wednesday yoga is still doing that thing where she holds warrior two about four counts longer than I expect, and I keep bracing for the release and then not getting it. I thought about that while I was eating the toast. Something about being ready for a thing to end and having to just stay in it a little longer. The egg did not have that kind of meaning. But the toast was good.