Fried Egg Sandwiches

He was hungry. Starved. Lying in bed. Going over events of the past day. Nothing accomplished. No letters written nor bills paid. Didn’t talk to anybody on the phone. Stayed inside looking out the window at the falling rain. The sun blotted out by dark clouds. That was his day. And now at one o’clock in the morning he was hungry.

There were two eggs in the ice box. A spoonful of mayonaise. Some wheat bread up in the cupboard. Little bit of butter. He decided to make a fried egg sandwich. Used to make them all the time. Years ago when he and the wife came home from a night on the town. Two drunks making fried egg sandwiches. Dancing in the kitchen. Listening to Bill Evans play Gloria’s Step. He’d twirl her. Give her a dip. Then a kiss on the lips. Most of the time butter burned in the pan.Turning brown. They’d laugh and start all over again. But, they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. He held her from behind while she flipped eggs in the frying pan. She’d lean her head back on his chest until the eggs were ready to place on the bread. Eating slowly. Enjoying every bite. Looking at each other. Scared of one day the other being gone.

That was twenty years ago. Now they lived apart. Her on one coast and him on the other. Eating fried egg sandwiches alone he thought. Being alone.

The egg stuck to the pan. It tore apart and did not look pretty. The yoke was hard, but, it was not a perfect yellow. He didn’t use enough butter. She would’ve laughed at his fried egg. Would’ve ridiculed it. She’d call it an abortion. He smiled. Thinking of her. And fried egg sandwiches.

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