There but for the grace of Super Chicken go I...
I entered my man cave this morning and found an egg on my desk.
No plate, no bowl. Just an egg. On a desk.
Not whole. Fried, sunny side up. Staring at me with a gelatinous yellow eye.
The yolk looked firm, not runny. It felt like a glare, actually, a sort of non-verbal “How could you do this to me?”
“It had naught to do with me,” I said, somewhat self-consciously, as I’m not used to talking to non-verbally communicating fried eggs. “I’m as confused as you are.”
I excused myself, ran into the house, and inventoried our supply of eggs. All present and accounted for.
“This is very strange,” I said upon returning, hands behind my back. “You did not come from my house.”
“How could you let this happen?” the egg seemed to ask in response. Had it moved after I left?
I shrugged. “How can you hold me responsible? I didn’t do it. I doubt very much the missus did it. And the children, young as they are, would most certainly have injured themselves in the attempt, and I would have put a stop to that. It’s a mystery.”
“I had dreams, you know,” the egg calmly stared back.
This was a bit unnerving. A shimmer of heat rose from its moist, glistening skin.
“I was going to be fine, strapping rooster,” it continued. “Explore places. That corner under the loquat tree, for starters. Maybe root around in the vegetable garden, assuming you ever replant it.”
Was this egg taking me to task over the sorry state of our garden?
“We’ll plant again as soon as this rain lets up,” I said. “If you hadn’t been cooked,” I continued, trying to regain the moral high ground, “you’d still have ended up on someone’s plate, as a chicken leg, or breast, or, more likely, both.”
“I could have been an egg-laying hen,” the egg stared back reproachfully. “They don’t get eaten.”
“I thought you were going to be a rooster,” I pointed out.
“I’m saying I had potential, could have been anything,” replied the egg unwaveringly.
“Of course, an egg-laying hen is just cranking out more eggs to be fried like you’ve been,” I said. “Bit disingenuous, that, isn’t it?”
The egg had no reply, but continued to stare.
“And think about me,” I continued. “I had work to do this morning. Writing. Now I’m arguing with a fried egg about wasted potential. Oh, the irony there. Plus I’ll have to clean this mess up. I bet your grease has stained my desktop.”
“You’re a heartless bastard,” stared back the egg.
“Technically, so are you,” I couldn’t help but say as I brought the plate and fork from behind my back. “You also look delicious.”
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