Max, You Burned the Eggs

“Max, you burned the eggs.”

She leaned over the counter and looked up at me over her glasses. With those eyes. Those green eyes.

“Every day you tell me the same thing.”

“No, Max, yesterday I told you that you added too much milk. Today you probably added too little.”

“Honey, I’ve been making you eggs each morning for years. You always complain.”

“The eggs you make are never good.”

“I could make you pancakes.”

“You’d probably burn those too.”

Her eyes wandered for a moment, and then slowly turned back towards me. “Max, you should come home. It’s been three years. It’s finished. It’s over. “

“

“I suppose he knew how to make the eggs.”

“Max, it was a mistake. It happened. It’s over, come home.”

“What, and hear you complain from morning till night? You never stop complaining. Even now, you come into the diner every morning, order breakfast. And then complain.”

“Your diner is empty because you don’t know how to cook. Hire someone. People might actually come in and eat here.”

“What, so I can pay you the alimony money I owe you?”

She took off her glasses, smiled at me, and began to undress.

I followed her to the bedroom. “Thanks,” she said, “for going over the script with me again. This time I have a good feeling about the audition.”

“Oh, and by the way, your eggs are the best. Among other things.”