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Omelet
By
David Aichenbaum, Jan 30, 2009
They aren’t comfortable in her bed so they move to the floor. The duvet confused them both—separately, at first.
Alone in his dorm room he failed with gusto. He propped the mattress on its end and, standing on a chair with the
slip of the duvet cover open and aimed, leapt down to bag it. There wasn’t enough fabric. It ripped. He took a
few steps back.
In her flat she nearly got it right. Only, mistaking the duvet for a mattress pad she slept over it and
shivered. But that was ages ago, two weeks almost. Edinburgh already seems something like home. They’re well
versed in the duvet system. They know to stuff the sack with that thing kind of resembling a comforter. They know
to sleep under it. They know to sleep under it together. And they know to feel guilty as a result.
The problem is, they went overseas to become new and strange. They’re supposed to fill themselves with things
unknown. They’re supposed to meet English and Scottish and Malaysian people. They’re supposed to pick up an
accent slick with life. They’re supposed to sleep with non-Americans.
In the morning, he works things through. He’s shorting himself—isn’t he?—by falling into a life he knows how to
live. Opportunities to revise, restock, come along only so often. It’ll have to end, sacked in its youth. She
probably feels the same. Maybe during breakfast.
“Think of yourself as an envelope,” he’ll break it.
“Consider me your envelope. Anytime.” And then she’ll tongue a sausage, a banger, whatever they call it.
“That’s really not what I meant. What can we possibly take from each other? We come from one place. We’re alike.”
For the moment she’s still asleep, curled on the hardwood, full in her wakelessness with the bits and pieces he
wanted yesterday but doesn’t now. He starts to crave a certain taste, something familiar.
He walks out to the street. The world is sunless, smug. A bronze dome floats overhead, capping an empty church.
There’s a frazzled, unfamiliar market stashed between two kebab shops. Spits of lamb turn, lightheaded, the smell
of salt spinning off. He hunts for mushrooms, American cheese, brown shell eggs. The produce is fresh, alarmingly
close to life. Some items he can’t get a grip on. To his left, massive potatoes wrapped in tree-stump bark. To
his right, purple heart-ovals ballooning with pride, safe in their crate. He has not a clue what to make of them.
David Aichenbaum lives outside Philadelphia. His work has appeared in SmokeLong Quarterly. He has read
submissions for Quick Fiction.
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