Sunny Side Up

The egg began to sizzle beneath the plastic spatula. The yolk trembled, blistered, then started popping in small, frantic bursts. Oil leapt from the pan and freckled her bare forearms. Normally, that sharp sting would have her hopping back, laughing under her breath, doing that small, practiced dance across the kitchen tiles until the yolk settled into itself. She would tip the egg just so, being sure to break it, and slide it onto the same small white porcelain plate.

She’d pair it with two pieces of white bread, the kind he liked, from M&S, cut into neat triangles. Lightly buttered. Framing the egg like castle walls. She liked the symmetry of it. The corners meeting at precise angles. Nothing spilling over the edges.

Next to that, a large glass of freshly pressed orange juice with no pulp. A small cup and saucer with French-pressed coffee. The plunger lowered exactly three minutes after the water met the grounds. The spoon resting at two o’clock. The handle of the cup facing outward.

Everything in its place.

But today, the popping of the oil brought her closer to the pan.

Her hand pressed harder on the spatula, as if pinning something down. Her eyes were fixed on the small rain-painted window above the sink. The paint had bubbled at the corners years ago and never been smoothed. Outside, the white garden gate swung open, shut, open, shut. The wind wasn’t strong enough to slam it, only persistent enough to toy with it. The hinges gave a tired whine.

Open.

Shut.

Open.

Shut.

The rhythm was irregular. Almost deliberate.

The egg’s edges blackened unnoticed. Smoke began to curl from beneath the spatula, thin at first, then thicker. The plastic handle softened slightly in her grip. She pressed down harder. The yolk gave way completely, spilling out in a bright, violent smear across the pan.

The smell changed.

And the house began to react.

The smoke alarm let out a constant chirp. The stairs above her creaked, one step at a time.

“What is that smell?” he shouted from the landing. “It smells like absolutely shite. Are you burning something?”

She did not move.

The spatula remained pressed into the pan. The smoke thickened and drifted toward the ceiling, collecting in the corners. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere in the house, a pipe clicked.

His footsteps came heavier now, descending.

“Mary, what the fuck is happening in here? That pan is about to catch fire.”

She could hear him before she saw him. The irritation already formed on his face. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, tie half-knotted, cufflinks in place, shoes newly polished. The faint scent of aftershave trailing behind him.

He looked at the pan. Then at her. Then back at the pan.

The smoke alarm chirped again.

She turned slowly. Her worn slippers whispered against the linoleum.

For a moment, nothing moved. The egg continued to burn. The gate continued to sway.

Open.

Shut.

Without hesitation, she lifted the pan and brought it across his face in one clean arc.

The sound was dull and shocking at once. Metal against skin. Something hollow beneath it.

The egg slid from the pan and landed squarely on his polished shoes, yolk spreading over the leather, seeping into the thin line where sole met upper.

He screamed. More in outrage than pain. He staggered back, clutching his cheek. He slipped on the oil, lost his footing, and fell hard onto the kitchen floor. The back of his head made a sound she'd never heard before.

The smoke alarm chirped once more, then fell silent.

She looked up at the Garfield clock perched above the doorway. Its orange plastic body was sun-faded, one ear chipped. The cartoon eyes swung lazily from side to side with each ticking second.

7:42.

Garfield’s eyes met hers.

Open.

Shut.

Open.

Shut.

On the floor, he inhaled sharply.. His hand moved toward his face, then faltered. The cufflink caught the light.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he muttered thickly, though the words were less certain than before. Something darker seeped into the collar of his shirt, blending with the yellow of the egg.

She stepped over him calmly and reached for her robe draped over the back of the kitchen chair. The cotton was soft and pilly. She slipped it on, tying it tightly around her waist.

Behind her, he made a small sound.

She walked to the stove and turned the burner off. The flame disappeared with a faint click. The pan still hissed softly, cooling in the stale kitchen air.

She crossed to the sink and looked out at the white gate again.

Open.

Shut.

For years she had watched that gate without seeing it. Buttered toast into triangles. Pressed shirts. Polished shoes. She had memorized the weight of routine. The way mornings could pass without leaving any mark at all.

Behind her, he shifted. The linoleum made a slight suction sound beneath his palm.

“Mary,” he said, weaker now. “Help me up.”

The words hung in the air but did not land anywhere.

She didn’t turn.

Instead, she moved to the counter and took her car keys from the small ceramic lemon-shaped bowl. The glaze was cracked along one edge. She slipped the keys into the pocket of her robe.

She opened the back door.

The air outside was cool and damp.

The gate creaked again. Louder now.

She stepped into the garden and walked toward it. The grass flattened beneath her slippers. Each step seemed to fall into rhythm with the hinges.

Open.

Shut.

Open.

Behind her, through the open door, the kitchen remained visible but distant. The overturned pan, smoke dissipating, a body on the floor, the porcelain plate untouched on the counter. The orange juice not yet poured. The bread still in its wrapper.

The Garfield clock swung its eyes.

7:43.

She reached the gate and placed her hand on the wood. The hinges whined under the slight pressure of her touch.

Behind her, he called her name again. The sound thinned as it traveled through the house, through the doorframe, through the open air.

She did not look back.

The gate resisted when she pushed it fully open. It stuck halfway, then gave with a splintering sigh. The wind caught it, pulling it wider than it had swung before.

Open.

She turned then, just slightly.

Through the rain-painted glass of the kitchen window, she could only see the Garfield clock. Its eyes swung back and forth, unbothered.

Open.

Shut.

The house held its shape. The smoke had cleared.

For a moment, she stood with one foot inside the garden and one foot beyond it. The ground on the other side looked the same as this side.

Behind her, there was a sound. Or maybe there wasn’t.

She stepped through the gate.

It swung behind her, slower this time.

Shut.