Written and read by Alex B. Fine

Guitar by Ben Ellis

* apologies for bad recording


When I woke up he was staring at me calmly.
“Pierre,” I said, looking into his eyes, “You deserve the very best; a long walk on a cool autumn morning. I know that’s what you want and I’m going to give it to you. I’m the man for the job.”
I stood up. I was naked. I walked to the window and pulled back the curtains and the room filled with light. Pierre watched me. I put on a pair of black skivvies with blue piping.
“Pierre, as you know, these are my favorites”, I said, chuckling wisely. He stared at me.
“Listen”, I said, “what is mine is also yours. Now with that in mind, today I will fry four rather than the usual two eggs (I will, it’s fine), and the side of ham–you know the one I mean–shall be cleft in twain, just as the single-serve peach yogurt shall be divided once, equally.”
I opened the door and when I did Pierre lifted his head. He got up when I left the room and followed me down the dark hall and into the kitchen. As I walked in my skivvies I could feel my calves rattling anchored firmly to my shins and I felt strong; I felt like walking for years, like Thomas Jefferson strolling through Philadelphia, detached from the customs of that city but still feeling strong in a pair of colonial skivvies perhaps not unlike these.
I lifted the spoon out of the jar of bacon grease by the stove.
“Now,” I said, waving the spoon, “my little rabbit, haha, let’s see if we can’t put something together, no?” His left eye seemed to close a little.
The skillet heated and the lump of gray bacon residue turned clear and spread across the black surface. As I cracked open the second egg and poured its contents into the skillet I turned around and saw Pierre sprawled on the kitchen floor, asleep.
“Pierre, my man, don’t even think about taking a nap at this juncture.” I laughed as I turned both eggs over with the spatula, and the broken yolk of one leaked through albumen and out into the center of the black frying pan, hardening as it did.

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