“That isn’t what I meant, you know.”

It didn’t matter, though. None of it really did. Ben pokes at an over-cooked egg, demanding it split with the side of his fork. Cantankerous, it hangs on at the corners, and he works harder at it. This goes on longer than it should.

“Damn thing.” 

He realizes he’s taking it out on his breakfast, this petty offense, his worry that it will swell to something larger. Last night it was a slow simmer, and he hoped he could get to bed, say “goodnight” to avoid anything head-on. Of course, that hadn’t worked either; he stewed in the darkness, turned his pillow over and over, and fell asleep only  hours later. No amount of imaginative persuasion could alter his mood.

And now I’m angry at an egg, he thinks.

The picture of May had set him off, the one he found on Facebook, the image of her, still as vivid and crisp as his middle school memory, standing before an adorable flowershop she owned in San Francisco for godssake, the messages beneath it, much she’d be missed dated August of 2014. Nine years. His hand had reached across the bed, musing what he might. Watery, and heavy in dread. Nothing worked.

“The silence is at once terrible and re-assuring.“

Finally chewing a bit of egg now. “What I–what I want is something else.” He tests the phrase for its inadequacy. “Something else.”

His eyes stray unfocused and return to the plate, pretending to evaluate his next cut. The toast might be easier. He assumes the stare which sizes him up, which so far has not replied, not that he has said anything, really, which merits one. His fork in his hand, his hand a bit drier than it might have been in 2014; this apartment, his hand with a fork over this plate, this table, even this egg. This moment, this anticipation and this dread, this clock which quietly ticks the minutes before he must leave.

“It’s not important,” he concludes at last, hoping that settles it. It usually does. 

The silence is at once terrible and re-assuring. That this morning, too, might pass without an incident, without some dramedy. Ben knows he damn well couldn’t take it. Almost can’t. His fork tinks quietly on the plate. He notices and stops it. Yes, it must have been the picture last night. The flower shop something out of a Meg Ryan movie. That explains last night. Is it grief that stops him now, that swells in his chest like a hollow tide? He sets his fork down and stands, ignoring his knees.

“I’m going to go now, okay?” He finds his eyes still on the fork, the half-eaten egg, the neglected rye. The coffee offers no better conviction, chilled like a dark March morning. 

He picks up the plate, this plate, this clock, the fork in this act of balance, the dis-ease that it may tumble, the fancy of 3200 different mornings, of thousands more at terrace or cafe, of eggs and coffee, of nights and hands. His head looks up for the prefigured scrutiny.

Outside, in the rayless morning, a sudden downpour of hail drowns out everything.