EGG SALAD
Tomorrow I will make egg salad. With olive oil and lots of salt.
I will roll each egg under my palm and gather the shells on the cutting board and press the cracked curves flat until they resemble tectonic plates, gliding and crashing and pulling away from each other, slowly and relentlessly.
I’ll cut the two unshelled eggs with a fork directly into a scalloped glass bowl, followed by a shower of salt and a stream of oil, green as grass. In a small galley kitchen, I will lean back against the wall and finish off the bowl, without leaving the counter, one spoonful at a time.
There is nowhere to be.
At night I dream of eggs, ovoid and heavy, rolling lumpily over hills in my bedroom floor, shedding their shells as they go.
The next day I will wake up and, thinking yesterday was a dream, pull out two eggs from the fridge and do it all over again.
I do this until I run out of eggs and can’t remember where they’ve gone.
Marissa W. Chen lives in New York and often visits clumps of weeds in the park. She finds and collects ephemera on IG @marissawchen.
