Lady Catherine pulled her brush through her hair feeling the tug against her scalp. While staring in the mirror, she felt the tug from her heart. Sometimes she feared her heart would leap from her chest, take her place at the breakfast table and betray her lustful yearnings to her husband, Lord Horatio Hotchkiss. She supposed that their relationship was built on love, if love was little more than an efficient partnership, but what it displayed in efficiency, it sorely lacked in passion. Lovemaking with Lord Horatio was like lying beneath a pasty scarecrow. His effort was anemic and his touch was like that of a blind man trying to read Braille while wearing mittens.
She took her place at the table where her eggs, sunny side up, were getting cold. Across from her was her husband, reading the newspaper and slurping his coffee. She gently traced the yolks with her fork. Beneath a thin, cooked membrane, the yolks seemed to undulate, anticipating their long-awaited forking.
Lady Catherine picked up a sausage link and, with it, gently tapped her bulbous eggs. Finally, the sausage broke through, and the grateful yolk coated it completely. Lady Catherine let the two foods revel in the moment, but the moment could never last. The eggs and sausage were just too incompatible, and before their yolky afterglow could congeal, Lady Catherine preserved the moment by devouring them both. Now they could be together forever.
“I’m going for a walk,” said Lady Catherine. Her husband grunted behind his paper.
To be continued…