She rips open a sugar packet and dumps it into her coke. She grabs another. Rip. She folds the pink paper carefully into fourths before shoving them into her jacket pocket. She watches the white powder sink to the bottom of the red glass, strawberry snowflakes. She stirs it with her pinky, and her nails clicks against the glass, Morse code, SOS. She had just had her nails done for her sister's wedding, make sure its coral, not pink, it needs to match the dress, are you sure that's coral? She orders eggs please, scrambled please. Marcie the waitress dyed her hair white cause she's going to be a grandma soon and she needs to look her age. You would look your age no matter what color you dyed your hair, she thinks, but she smiles, and bacon. please, thank you. Any sign of him dear? Should be here any minute, he's always running late. Marcie laughs, coffee stained teeth, men, then walks over to a thin man with a blond mustache. He's sitting alone too, and he smiles at her. She looks away. She reads the desert menu twice, cherry, apple, blueberry pie. Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of rye. She likes the song on the radio so she taps her foot, but it keeps landing on the wrong beat. Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. A big hand sets her plate in front of her. When the pie was opened the birds began to sing. Not Marcie's hand, his hand, and across the eggs he has scrawled Sorry, love you in ketchup. Oh wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king? He sits down and takes a sip of her coke. He makes a face and orders a cup of coffee, black please, thanks. The eggs are fried. She remembers she doesn't really like ketchup after all, no, its fine, really, thank you, go ahead. He eats them for her.
Fried Eggs with Ketchup
September 12, 2009