FIRST APPEARED IN REFLEX FICTION
JANUARY 2023
We lurch out of Larissa on the 9:22 before freeing the eggs, one by one. It starts as a dare, a rebuke of our hostess who packed us a hard-boiled twelve, but too little cake. The cake smells of zest, warms the bag and our hands, and though we try to ration it, we fail.
The first egg peels like a dream as we pick up some speed, past glinting cars and rubble and hills. But with ten still to share, we know, we know, the mouth can only take so much yolk.
The trick is to act like our intentions are pure, but the eggs too slippery, too wild. I grab hold of my second, ad-lib about Plato, set it down near my feet and let go. It rolls under the seat, dodging sandals and suitcases before pulling away for the win. We want to high-five but if that old man wakes up, he will shame us and ruin our game.
The train is flanked by rock and more rock, but we grow lighter with every release. One wobbles, one swerves, one stalls, maybe cracked, and one veers across the aisle to the rear. By the time we hug the coast, spot some or other temple, only two of our burden remain. We get them into position, hum the Olympic fanfare and count backwards from three for the push. We are still wiping our eyes when the old man appears with a glare and a hat full of eggs. He sits down beside me and holds out the stash until the three of us have taken our pick. The one he selects is tracked with dirt but unbroken, and he waits for us to admire it, too. “In the year one nine four one,” he starts, tapping the shell to punctuate, hunting for wartime words we’ll have no choice but to hear.
D.B. Miller 