The egg danced in the pan.
It was Sunday. Day of rest. Day of depression. I watched as the egg did its jig, and wondered when he’d call, if he’d call. I checked my phone for the time in Indonesia; it was the middle of the night. He wouldn’t call in the middle of the night. He’d be up drinking bandrek, throwing dice in a bucket.
The egg waltzed and wobbled, a thin thread of insides leaching slowly from a hairline crack. The water was bubbling, a rocky sea. Murky, like mangrove swamp.
I turned off the hob. Eight minutes. That was the perfect number, he said, for an egg to boil hard. So the yolk was crumbly. So the white was firm, but still with some give.
I dipped my hand in the water.
I felt alive yet.
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