Green Egg

All the eggs in the fridge were boiled. Cold. And green. No one ever asked how you liked your eggs. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that they had been boiled long ago, left waiting, turning sulfurous under flickering café lights. Time sat next to stale black pepper in a dusty shaker. And our thoughts— rational at first, crumbled like overcooked yolks, scattering onto the table, falling through the cracks of old wooden floors. Regret, exhaustion, indifference— they filled the air, just like the smell of eggs boiled too long. And yet, they still sprinkled black pepper on top. They still called it breakfast. They still served it with a smile, as if the green didn’t matter, as if this was how eggs had always been. The plates clattered, the spoons stirred weak coffee, and conversations droned on, as if no one noticed the way time had curdled, the way everything had turned cold. But we noticed. We always noticed. And still, we ate.