”Well? Do you have eggs or not?”

”Let’s go and see,” I suggest with a teasing smile, leading Tina to my big glorious kitchen.

”I can’t believe you don’t even know what’s in your own fridge,” she remarks.

”I told you, I don’t eat at home.”

I open the refrigator, confident I won’t see anything in there except empty takeout boxes, water bottles, wine and…

”Ooh, we’re in luck. I have three eggs… I even have something that looks like a ham,” I inform Tina, studying the packet.

”That’s very good, ham is suitable. Is it fresh?”

”Ummm, the expiry date is July 17,” I say and look over at Tina.

”…which is today,” she clarifies the obvious.

”…which means it’s still eatable!” I acclaim enthusiastically and take the eggs out of the fridge. ”What do you wanna cook anyway?”

”Omelette.”

”Yum. God, I’m so hungry I’d eat this ham even if it were past July 17.”

”Eww, Bette.”

I observe as Tina searches the kitchen cupboards for something.

”Do you need something else?” I ask her, watching her curiously.

”A pan, duh.”

”Oh, right.”

We search for the pan together, for I’m as knowledgeable as Tina is about my kitchenware’s location. When we finally find a pan and a mixing bowl, Tina puts the eggs into my hands.

”Beat them together while I cut the ham.”

I stare down at the eggs. ”Okay, I guess.”

Tell me again why didn’t I try harder to talk her into ordering takeout? I know I would succeed if tried just a little bit harder. Now she’s forcing me to cook. That was never something I could foresee myself doing. Because, you know, cooking and Bette Porter. Bette Porter and cooking. Black and white. Good and bad. Water and fire. Life and sobriety. Ex-girlfriends and common sense. Alice and silence. Yin and Yang.

Sigh. Am compelled to accept the fate, it seems.

Tina tries to keep up a small conversation while I try to crack the eggs open carefully and let their contents fall into the mixing bowl. I then peer into the bowl, noticing that small pieces of egg-shell have fallen into the bowl, which I assume is a bad thing. Damn. I cast a furtive glance backwards to make certain Tina is kept occupied before I take a teaspoon and try to fish out the pieces. Turns out it’s not as simple as it seems, for the pieces just keep slipping away from the spoon in that gross slippery egg slime. This is getting more frustrating every second. You sneaky little sons of bitches, you better get into my damn spoon, you. Or so help me God I’ll make you regret you got out of your chickens.