The morning broke with a flick of my cigarette ash, its falling mountain an inevitable demise. I watch it heap ungracefully amongst the brown crispy net of the cold fried egg left uneaten from the night before. My head bangs in time to the birdsong.

Nope, it would just not do
An egg must be perfect, it MUST be
It must be, it must be, what is wrong with the her?
What must we do?

I am sick, sick and tired of asking. Is it really too much to ask. Just one simple, well, cooked egg.

The door handle rattles open. In she comes smiling, both hands full with several plain brown paper bags, full of expensive organic vegetables. The type that comes with free dirt.

I wonder idly what her fingers might look like poking out of the earth in the back garden.

‘Ah, Mara, veggies! great, great’.
She looks at me happily, but I see the little cloud flitting across her eyes, a recognition of our faux-brittle happiness. Unbelievable. Does she not know - that I know?

There are spaces we must go
Where the night seems right
And the lure of unseen faces
Draws us in, to the dark places in between
Where an egg and our love are just so
You met your lover, she told me so