The Egg Said Nothing Read Free

bedside lamp and hefted it onto the bed. Placing it behind the egg, I tried to discern shapes in the shadows. I could see light around the edges, I thought, but the solid parts just seemed consistently solid. No matter where I maneuvered the light, I couldn’t see inside. What if I were to crack it open?

    “No,” I said. I shook my head and pressed my fingers to my temples, gently massaging, and pushed the thought away. Cracking the egg would destroy it. It had to hatch on its own.

    But what if it doesn’t?

    What if I just leave it here on my bed and it rots and I have no idea what has happened? I don’t even know how long a human egg takes to hatch. Is it nine months? How much gestation takes place before it’s been laid? Would I be waiting forever?

    I had to get away.

    It was dark when I left. The lights on my street are on a broken timer and don’t come on until around three in the morning. This was sometime before that. I hit the bank fountain almost immediately. About four dollars.

    I went down the sidewalk slowly, trying not to think. Walking by the Laundromat, I looked up. The place was nearly empty, its fluorescent lights exposing a desert of laminated flooring and thirty-year-old machines. A single figure stood near the front door, facing the street. He looked familiar. I paused momentarily, not long enough for my feet to adhere to the sidewalk. Not long enough to consider getting caught in a conversation. Staring at my feet, I carried on.

    I felt the cement beneath the soles of my shoes and the breeze on my skin, brushing gently against me like someone else’s lover. Urging me. Coaxing me. My body wandered until it found a patch of grass next to a gas station, an odd little piece of ground that seemed to resist the impending urbanization. I leaned back on the grass, the blades tickling the nape of my neck. I might have fallen asleep.

    My body stirred. It climbed to its feet. The night was unbalanced, a balloon with a marble inside. Anything felt possible. If I were to lift right off the ground, I wouldn’t blink. If my egg were to hatch, I’d expect it.

    I walked into Pete’s Diner. I often do. It’s the only place open all night long. Sometimes I can’t sleep and can’t stand my own company; Pete’s offers the anonymity of a public place late at night. It’s like a bus station or the parking lot of a casino. I slumped down in a booth near the door and closed my eyes.

    A rustling lifted my eyelids. I looked up and saw pale blue eyes on a pale white face, framed in lustrous black hair. Her lips were like a silent film starlet’s, plump and pink. She opened her mouth to speak, lifting the curtain on straight, braces-in-high-school teeth, but one of them was chipped. The left canine. Chipped like ice crags on Everest.

    “What can I get you?” she asked, flipping the page on her order pad. Remnants of food were crusted on the front of her apron.

    “Uh,” I started. I reached deep in my pocket and grasped at the change. Pulling it out, I set it on the table like an offering. “Coffee?”

    “Just coffee?” Her eyes met mine; I died six times.

    “Um, yeah,” I replied. “And pie?”

    “Pie? What kind?”

    “Doesn’t matter,” I said softly. I looked away, fearful that if I didn’t I’d lose myself. Then I looked back quickly, realizing I just didn’t care. Her face was the last one I ever wanted to see.

    “Okay,” she said with no hesitation. She walked away, and I watched her do so. She had good balance and control over herself. She slid more than walked, like fluid. She moved like summer wind. Her hair ended just above the middle of her back, the bounce of her step sending a shimmer like a stone skipping across a still pond. I closed my eyes then, trapped her in my head:

    The waitress slid into the booth next to me. Her thigh hit mine. I felt her warmth, like a campfire in the snow. She reached out and separated the coins into dollar increments. Her fingers with their