Diner World

04/ EGGS, DOUBTFUL GAZE

Gordon Jennings woke up with a splitting headache like a broken egg. He had been having non-vegan certified visions for the past week, his dreams portals into some Apocalypse ruled by eggs and milk. He had thought to record these dreams in a notebook in order to make sense of them but had decided against such a measure. It would mean that he would be compiling a dairy diary. He thought the needless similarity between the words would ruin any effect of seriousness he could hope to convey to a medical professional.

He groped for the little drawer in his bedside table where he kept pain medication. He took three pills and then decided it was best to get out of bed and make breakfast. He was going to have a simple meal of cereal, with a dash of almond milk to spice things up. He was utterly void of any predilection towards dairy consumption. He thought that if he were to eat an egg, he may possibly lay one in a fit of revulsion. As he was a human and not a hen, he imagined that this would cause severe internal damage. Cereal would do for now.

Having gotten dressed and ready for a busy day of work in the exciting field of actuarial risk assessment, Gordon sat at his dining room table in the chair nearest to the window. The table had only two chairs to its name. The chair in which Gordon was not sitting lay empty, in want of an occupant. This empty chair belonged to Gordon's wife, Serohilde Horn. Hilde, as she liked to be called, was a professor at the local college and had taken ill during a flight to a conference in Honduras. She would not be back for several weeks. She was estranged from her sister Madeleine, the co-owner of Gordon's place of work and a recovering psychopath. Madeleine was going to have a daughter soon. While the Horn family was an affluent dynasty in the upper echelons of Louisiana culture, Hilde was her own woman. A picture of Hilde sat next to an empty plate across the table from Gordon. He pretended it was eating cereal with him. He waved with his spoon.

Gordon finished up his breakfast and washed his bowl and spoon. He liked to think he kept a relatively clean operation. If one kept a well organized abode in tip top shape, there was less to worry about in the long run. Gordon liked to think he had learned something in his seven years at the actuarial firm. He liked to think he was a good person who had good things happen to him due to a careful manipulation of statistics favorability. Unbeknownst to Gordon, the probability that he would die within the week's end was roughly 99.5% with a confidence interval of 99.4% to 99.6%. Gordon knew everything about statistics but very little pertaining to the randomness of life. He vaguely recalled that he had taken a biology class at some point in high school.

The necktie that Hilde had gotten him for his last birthday was coarse, a scratchy woolen fabric procured from a farmer in Malaysia. Gordon attempted to finagle the tempestuous fabric strip into a socially acceptable pattern around his neck. He was more or less successful but the harsh wool left a thin patch of skin upon Gordon's hand that was abraded more than the surrounding area. With a huff of indignation, he brought the area near his face and squinted until he could see the injury in full view. The scrape had not peeled enough skin away as to be a harbinger of blood, instead eliminating only a few select layers of the epidermis. It was enough to cause a distinct redness to appear but not enough to warrant serious complaint. To Gordon's surprise, a thin ooze of yellow liquid extended over the cut, sealing it to outside contaminants. Gordon inspected the indiscretion upon his skin further: first with his eyes, then with a firm touch, and finally with a quick flick of his tongue over the area. Gordon assumed the sight was a mere trick of the mind, albeit a trick of the mind that tasted astonishingly sweet.