30-minute writing exercise: egg, honey, stone

Henry cracked his egg over a bowl, producing a pleasant ring followed by a sharp crack and slimy decompression. The warmth of the pan at his left arm made him impatient. How annoying it was that pieces of shell would break free and sink into what when cooked would be an enticing meal, but now seemed like reproductive fluid, which, Henry thought, was probably accurate technically speaking. It could have been alive under different circumstances. Probably would have become a fine chicken, though it most likely would have ended up in a pan anyway. Why are eggs and chickens so different, he thought. Eggs so pure and round, almost graceful in their stillness; chickens so smelly and clumsy. The egg white had spread over Henry's fingers, so he reached to rinse his hands for what had to be the fifth time since deciding to make breakfast. The first had been when he failed to remove all of the honey from his fingers by licking. Better inside than out, he mused. The same with eggs, though the hen probably had a differing opinion.

Henry poured the whites and yolks into his pan, producing a dry hiss. He then flipped them onto his honeyed toast. The honey had pooled a bit at the corner and the egg slumped lopsided over the opposite edge, the whole thing lonesome in a sea of white plate. Henry pursed his lips. It looked quite sad. I miss Madeline, he thought with a sigh. The counter was cleared, the cupboards opened as Henry began again, preparing a meal she would have enjoyed.