The Egg Said Nothing Read Online Free

to what I am saying.

    “I am sorry I have gone on for so long. There was so much to tell you. Your future is most exciting. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

    “Lottery numbers?” I asked, looking for a pen.

    She sighed. “Seven, five, thirteen, twenty-seven, and four.”

    “Alright, thanks. That’ll do.” I hung up the phone, returned to the living room. Be honest , I thought, looking at the egg. There are people who mean me harm.

    Reclaiming my seat on the couch, I stared up at the ceiling. It would be worth it if I ended up with the waitress.

    “Should we tell her about you?” I asked the egg. Could she possibly understand? Could anyone? I wasn’t even sure yet if I did.

    I stretched out on the cushions, placing myself as a barrier between the egg and certain doom. “We may be fucked, Egg, but if we are, I’ll get fucked first. I promise.”

~Chapter 4 ~

    In which the narrator keeps his egg warm and kind of weirds out the waitress.

    The egg was surprisingly warm when I woke up. My arms were wrapped protectively around it. With some shoulder work, I was able to untangle my sleeping arms from their treasure. The egg rolled lazily into the corner of the couch, safe and secure.

    I moved to my bed and rebuilt the egg’s nest. The heater went back to the top of its stack of boxes, set on low. I gathered the egg and its blanket from the couch and tucked them in.

    Searching the floor, I found an unwashed button-down and a pair of jeans. After dressing quickly, I went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Not much of anything.

    I picked my keys up off the table, walked into the bedroom and gave the egg a kiss on its shell. I rotated it and left, locking the door several times behind me.

    When I got to the street, the sun was starting to set. I had slept much later than I thought. Cutting away from the main thoroughfares, I took to the alleyways that run parallel to it, through nearby residential neighborhoods. The makeshift roadways were devoid of life, beautifully empty like a junkie on detox.

    I stalked through the internal organs of the neighborhoods, one after the other, like a ghost. I glanced through windows and took note of everyday human life. As I walked, I realized where I was. Looking to my right, I saw Pete’s.

    Inside, the waitress seemed concerned. Not for me, but for her safety. She bit the inside of her lower lip, betrayed only by the subtlest of movements in her soft flesh. Her eyes jerked back and forth between me and the path away from me. Her breath came slowly and deliberately, like an animal listening for a predator’s footsteps.

    “Just coffee and pie, please.”

    “Um, what kind?” she asked, relieved that I’d said something for which she was prepared. Her hands quickly scribbled on her notepad, too many words for what I had requested.

    “Doesn’t matter,” I said and ran both hands over my hair. Staring at the table, I listened to her footsteps fade away. I didn’t look up.

    For the first time, I smelled her. I can’t describe the smell. Flowery, yet somehow musty, like a beautiful woman with the soul of an old book. The plate slid in front of me. Cherry pie. She set a mug down and filled it with coffee.

    “Anything else?” she asked, somewhat nervously. Her hand gripped the coffee pot.

    “No,” I said, looking up at her. I met her pale eyes with my own. She looked back, and I thought I saw a hint of something other than revulsion behind her self-protectively glassy stare. As though she might have the capacity to understand what I felt. She gave me a tight-lipped half smile and broke the connection, walking away quickly.

    I didn’t bother to pick up the fork. I wasn’t going to eat. I didn’t blow the steam off the coffee. I wasn’t going to drink.

    I reached into my pocket, pulled out a twenty and laid it out on the table, anchoring it with the mug. I slid across the bench seat and stood on weak, wobbly legs. Turning my body