Randall Randall
“I only want one egg this morning,” Randall said.
“Bacon or sausage?”
“Sausage.”
“We’re out of sausage,” Claudia said.
“Then why did you ask me?”
She put the bacon on the counter next to the carton of eggs. “I wanted to give you a choice.”
“But I didn’t have a choice.”
“You chose, didn’t you? You just made the wrong choice.” She cracked an egg into the hot skillet. It sizzled.
“Well I don’t want bacon,” Randall said,
“Then I won’t make you any.”
He looked at her in her lavender robe and cream-colored slippers. She was dressed in street clothes, but still she wore that robe over them and those slippers. He hated the way the heels of her feet looked, hard and callused, white, porous.
“Do you want toast?”
“Is there any bread?”
“Yes.”
“Then, yes, I want toast.”
Claudia flipped one of the eggs. “I broke your yolk,” she told him. She lit a cigarette and put the lighter back down on the sill above the sink.
