DRAGON (mxm)

12. The Old Days (Deon)

   "Here," I take Chris's hand and place his index finger on the thin rim of the glass bowl. "Ok?"

   "Yeah," he nods energetically, grinning from ear to ear. "Step aside. Don't worry. I have good orientation. I'll score a direct hit."

   "Of course, you will," I pat his shoulder. "I don't doubt it."

   He swings the egg towards the target. The next moment it is splashed on the table in a mash of white, yolk and shell pieces. I snort. His expression is priceless, a mixture of surprise, disbelief and a little embarrassment. Cute.

   "What?" he mutters. "Where's the bowl? Did you move it?"

   "Aww, are you really going to blame it on me, butterfingers?" I sneer. "Maybe, it grew legs and ran away on its own."

   "Very funny," he pouts. "Give me another egg."

   "Sure." I put it in his hand. He grips the bowl with the other and bites his lip in concentration. Hesitation is written all over his face, so I decide to encourage him. "You will succeed this  time. I promise I won't tease you again. Go ahead!"

   "It's not that," he shakes his head. "We shouldn't waist food. There isn't much of it. An egg is not insignificant."

   "I know," I lightly squeeze his forearm. My heart sinks. Not that I would ever forget it, but his words remind me in full force of the gravity of the situation. This planet is almost annihilated. Its remaining inhabitants live on the edge of survival. Fauna and Flora are mutating. They are all doomed, unless I find a way to stop the disaster and save what is left. I sigh, "It's true. One egg is more precious than a diamond. I know it. Nothing will be waisted, I assure you. You can try one more time."

   "Sorry," he mumbles. "I am such a killjoy. An egg wouldn't make any difference, would it? It's just that... I think, I've been through more than I can handle. I'm tired, Dee. So fucking tired."

   "I found you right in time then. You are not alone anymore." I wrap my arm around his waist and firmly grip his wrist. "Do you mind a little help?"

   "No." Chris finally relaxes, leaning his back against my chest. "It's actually very welcome. I seem to be lost without you lately."

   With some guidance from me, he knocks the egg precisely on the edge and carefully slides the yolk and white into the bowl. I clean the shells from the other one and scoop it off the table with a spoon. Not an easy task, but I manage to add it to the mixture.

   "All done. We have two eggs in the bowl. What else?" I glance at my sad, brave boy. He is so handsome when the subtle smile curves up the corners of his soft lips. Every time I look at him, I want to protect him, to make him like me as much as I admire him, to wipe the sadness away from his face and make him laugh. 

   "Only a pinch of salt and a good beat," he answers, gripping eagerly the balloon whisk I put in his hand. "Oh, my God! This is great. Now, watch my flawless technique and take notes. It almost feels like the old days. The truth is, mom preferred to make breakfast on her own, because my wild enthusiasm always faded away just before we got around to cleaning the terrible mess I made in the kitchen. It didn't stop her from encouraging me, though. She praised everything I cooked, even when I burned the toast or the milk boiled over, splattering the stove."

   "Must have been a lot of fun, and a pain to clean up," I chuckle. He is skillful. It is a pleasure to watch his deft movements. "What did you put in the omelet in the old days?"

  "Oh, whatever I found in the fridge," he shrugs. "Sometimes bacon, other times cream and mushrooms, mixed vegetables, the leftover grilled chicken breast from dinner, but it is pretty good plain as well."