I step in something cold, slimy on the kitchen tile.
Gelatin-encased golden suns. Crushed shells.
Gwen is slumped in the corner, rage melted.
I grease up a pan, ignite the burner, scoop up the ruined eggs with a spatula, and toss them into the spitting oil.
Then help her stand.
Tim Boiteau writes and lives near Detroit with his wife and son.