In the afterglow she asked him “What do you want?” And he said “Eggs.” and so she kissing him left the bed and walked with grace through the carpeted foyer, her makeshift office and into the kitchen. Her feet padded on the Ikea floor catlike. He had bought her this floor tile. She would make him these eggs and he would love her. And she would be loved by him. She would keep herself beautiful for him. She went to great pains for this. She poured olive oil in the skillet and began frying spinach and mushrooms she had on hand, bell peppers, onions. She sizzled them and she cooked them and turned them over with her spatula. His acknowledgement was audible. She was warmed adjacently. She broke eggs into a bowl and added milk and beat the eggs, turning them, wisking them. When the greens had cooked she separated them, the hot oil spitting. She’d never thought cooking for someone could be this sensual. She thought of him tasting, his breathing rhythms, satisfaction. She took responsibility. In the same pan, with the frier on, she without thinking dumped the egg very quickly for an omlette. The fluid was repelled by the heat, bounced out, sizzled and spat, and met her torso at a very high temperature. She contorted and screamed and fell to the Ikea tile floor, still holding the pan, where the hot egg and veggies crashed to the floor in a terrible sound. He came out concerned and held her and said “What happened!?” and she said “I burnt myself on the eggs,” and he laughed and shooshed her and she was embarassed at her true lack of grace but he loved her all the more for it.
The Intersection Of Flash Fiction Contest