They're Just Eggs

This morning, I made eggs at work. It reminded me of a morning from a few weeks ago.

I woke up in their bed, at their house. We had a nice evening together. The previous week, they were getting over a cold. I told them to come over anyway and knowingly took my immune system’s chances. Yeah — that’s how good it is. Between that and all the sounds that escaped my throat the night before, when I woke and tried to speak, all that came out was a hoarse whisper. I covered my mouth in shock, and we laughed.

They asked if I wanted some tea, and I thought that was very sweet. I chose the turmeric ginger — for the health benefits, not the taste. I lay in bed, cozy in the sheets while the pot of water boiled, as a ’60s vinyl spun on their record player. I watched them as they cleaned, walking in and out of the bedroom. The way their body moved. Those arms that I adored.

When I heard the boiling water hissing, I got up, took it off the burner, and sat at the kitchen table. I hadn’t really eaten the day before, and I was hungry, especially after the night’s exertion. I asked if they had some bread for toast. They said they did and popped two slices in the toaster. I told them that when I woke up, I was craving eggs and toast and planned to go home and make some. They said that they had eggs, and I said that they sounded good.

The tea was steeped and ready. They set it on the table, remembered something, and came back with a stroopwafel, a Dutch caramel tea cookie — which they placed on top of the mug. Then they served me the toast on a paper towel. I asked if they had jam and quietly worried if I was asking for too much. But who eats just plain toast? They said that they did and brought it to me.

My voice was nearly completely gone, but the warm tea was soothing. I ate my toast and drank my tea while we talked about our plans for the day. In my eyes, it was one of those romantic, slow mornings together that I dream of. Not just with them, but with anyone I share my love with. It’s a different type of intimacy — one that feels peaceful and light.

After finishing my toast, I began to clean up after myself as they tidied up the living room from the night before. I put the bread back in the pantry, the knife in the sink, and the paper towel in the trash can. I opened the fridge to put away the strawberry jam, and the sight of the egg carton stopped me in my fluid motion. There they were, the eggs, just sitting on the shelf. They knew I wanted eggs, because I told them. Yet there they sat.

Why didn’t they make me eggs?

Maybe they just didn’t want to dirty dishes or have the house filled with the smell that comes with hot oil on the stovetop. After all, it’s not like eggs were in our communicated, agreed-upon expectations in our casual but caring relationship. Maybe I should just be grateful for the tea and the toast. And the jam.

It’s completely valid that they didn’t want to make me the eggs.

But I prefer someone who would.