Scrambled

“So just the eggs then?”

“Just the eggs.”

“No sausage? No toast? Nothing?”

“Fine. Brown with butter,” Dzinski said. “And raspberry jam, if you got it.”

The waitress took off, as though she wasn’t used to fetching things, and he felt low about the way he’d spoken. She set the jar itself in front of him, with the knife resting across the opening.

“We don’t usually serve breakfast past noon,” she said, looking for high ground to stand on, and finding it suitable. “And don’t think for a second that I haven’t seen that bottle itching out of your pocket.”

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2 thoughts on “Scrambled

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