A Mourning of Scrambled Eggs

Somehow she knew this would be the last morning she’d see me. She was magical like that. She made me coffee as usual, and she made my favorite breakfast. She didn’t plate any for herself. I imagine she was too nervous to eat. I had no appetite either, but how could I offend her in light of what I was about to do. I lifted forkful after forkful of scrambled eggs into my mouth. It tasted of desperation and loneliness and love. It felt like chewing on death, on the death of something beautiful. I knew in that moment I’d never eat scrambled eggs again.

She kept busy by chasing wrinkles around the tablecloth with her fingers while I ate. She wouldn’t look at me. I didn’t blame her. She looked like a helpless animal and I felt like the bulldozer wrecking her forest. When the scrambled contents of her heart began to rise back into my throat, I stood up and put on my coat. She stood up slowly, still not looking at me. Suddenly I felt as though I were seeing her for the first time. She was beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her, I did. I loved her intensely, but I knew I couldn’t do this anymore, and she knew it too.

She glided over to me in the most graceful way, mournful and slow and full of purpose. I could hear my heart cracking in the silence of her steps. She wrapped her arms around me. We embraced for what seemed like a century but I’m sure it was only a few seconds. She still hadn’t looked at me.

She broke away first and walked into the the bedroom we’d shared for the last so many years and came out with the luggage I’d been secretly packing for over a week. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to drop to a heap on the floor and cry. I wanted to get the fuck out. She walked the luggage over to me and set it down gently at my feet. She looked up to meet my eyes but in that moment she’d become as bright as the sun to me and now it was I that could not look at her, so I looked down at the floor instead. She reached out and delicately placed two fingers under my chin, guiding my face to hers. Looking into her eyes was both painful and exhilarating, and I felt so small and shameful under her gaze.

I knew I had to get the hell out of there and that I had to do it fast. I mustered the courage to kiss her quickly on the cheek before I reached down and picked up my luggage. Her skin felt fevered and left my lips tasting salty and sad. I turned around without a word and opened our large oak door for the last time.

I never saw her again after that, not until today.