Nope, nothing in the vegetable drawer either. Damn, her stomach growls, an entire fridge and nothing inside it but cold mustard.
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She looks towards the table where Becky is seated, eyes closed. Ms. Cooper nudges her daughter gently to take the egg that she had found on the chair earlier in the day from under her.
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“Should I?” she whispers.
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On the one hand, she hasn’t eaten all day — her stomach is so furious that it’s punching the organs around it.
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On the other hand, the egg was laid by her daughter, Becky, a name that is not short for ‘Rebecca’ but a combination of ‘bock’ and ‘peck’. Every time she looks at Becky, Ms. Cooper also sees feathers bursting like confetti onto the shocked OBGYN’s face. We Now Know the Chicken Came First was the NYT headline, which is why there’s non-stop paparazzi outside, which, in turn, is why she doesn’t leave the building, even for groceries.
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Her stomach does a full front flip, as if her intestines are a trampoline. “It’s just an egg!” it yells mid-air.
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That’s right, it’s just an egg. Chickens lay eggs every day, so if she’s not going eat them, they’ll just accumulate until there’s no more space in the apartment, eventually rotting and attracting rats.
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She takes out her pan, turns on the flame, and cracks open the shell. Mmm it certainly smells like a chicken egg — a fresh one too. She’ll add salt and maybe even a bit of the mustard.
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Bzzzz! — the doorbell interrupts her.
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Oh God, the reporters again.
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No, she spies through the peephole. What’s going on — she unlocks the top latch. Was there a robbery in the building?
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“Ms. Cooper?”
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“Yes Officer, that’s me.”
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“Is this you?” the officer shows Ms. Cooper a blurred video that the paparazzi must’ve taken of her cracking the egg and then opening it onto the pan.
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“Yessir, that’s me. I have no privacy anymore.”
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“Ms. Cooper,” the officer removes handcuffs from his belt, “You’re under arrest for cannibalism, child abuse, and performing an illegal abortion.”
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“Are you serious?” she says, “I was just cooking an egg.”
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“Don’t worry,” the officer closes the metal circles over her wrists, “we’ll turn off the stove.”
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Scrambled Egg
by Philip Sopher
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