Scrambled

Bette slumped over the stove, wearing an oversized T-shirt and lavender sweatpants. Her hair hung in a greasy mess. After staring at the burner for ten minutes straight, she finally flicked it on. Then she wandered over to the 'fridge. The moment she opened it, the stench of spoiled milk pervaded the kitchen. But without even scrunching up her freckled nose in disgust, Bette scanned the shelves from bottom to top; she always stored the oldest food in the bins below. Deciding that the salami and cheddar should rot for another day, Bette grabbed the carton of eggs teetering on the highest shelf. It had been balanced on a row of butter sticks, a tub of guacamole, and a jelly jar.

Without the slightest pause, Bette shuffled to the counter next to the stove. Dried olive oil, smeared salsa, and flecks of parmesan cheese covered various spots across the counter, giving the appearance of a decaying patchwork quilt. When Bette set down the carton of eggs, the textured bits stuck to the surface of the counter crunched like dozens of cicada shells beneath a fur-trapper's feet. Bette sighed.

Exactly two weeks and four days ago, Bette had moved to Toronto from Miami. And exactly two weeks and six days ago, she had broken up with her high school sweetheart.

"This Fulbright will make my career, Toby," Bette whispered as she looked down at the floor, "You know I've always wanted to be a playwright--"

"You can write plays right here in Coral Gables." Toby sat next to Bette on the living room sofa, squashing a pillow. He didn't bother to pull it out from under him.

"But not without finding some way to support myself before I get famous. I'd have to wait tables, or become a secretary, or something, and that would take time away from my writing--"

Toby started to heave, "You know I'd help you. I believe in you, I'll do whatever I can to support you because I love you, and--"

"Support me? How? By taking on another shift at the porno?" Bette twisted her mouth.

"It's not a porno. How many times do I need to--"

"Toby, you still have two more years until you finish your Master's. Two years more years before you can get a real job, two more years before--"

"But until then I'm doing what I can to pay the bills. There is no shame in making an honest living selling popcorn at a--"

"So what am I supposed to do until then?"

"Stay with me until I finish my degree. Write your plays here, in Miami."

Bette breathed heavily and crossed her arms, not letting Toby out of her sight for a mere blink.

"Two years. And then we'll move anywhere you want, Bette."

Bette bolted up from the sofa and stood directly in front of Toby. "Just wait for you? What about my dreams? If you really supported me, if you really loved me and believed in me, then you'd realize that this an opportunity I just can't pass up."

"I know theatre's your life, Bette. Trust me, I do. But Miami isn't exactly the boonies. You can get your work produced at--"

"Miami is not New York," Bette spat and waved her arms, "Miami is not Chicago. Miami is not London. Miami is not Paris. Miami is not Toronto! We live in a city full of beach bums, not literatis, directors, and serious actors, Toby!"

Toby could not muster a reply. Both parties hesitated. A minute passed before Toby stood up beside Bette and placed his bony hands on her chubby shoulders.

"Bette--"

"This is the perfect place for you, I get it," Bette hissed, pushing Toby's hands off of her. "If I wanted to play with dolphins all day, I'd never want to leave Miami, either. But for someone with dreams of a theatre career, this is not the right place, okay? You knew this is what I always wanted to do."

"I thought we could make it work here."

"Well, we can't. One of us will have to make a sacrifice."

"Is there a big aquarium in Toronto?"

"Does it matter? I'm not going to stay there longer than the Fulbright pays for. I don't want to do the whole ex-patriot thing. I'll either move to New York or Chicago afterwards."

Bette flopped back onto the sofa.

"So...no more Miami?" Helplessness colored Toby all over. Suddenly he appeared small and crumpled.

"No, no more Miami. How many more times do I have to--? Wasn't it enough that I came here for you in the first place?"

"What would you have done otherwise, stayed in Minnesota?"

"At least I had connections with Bedlam Theatre."

"Don't be ridiculous," Toby said, and sat beside Bette. "You got that thing with Miracle Theatre."

"That was just a lousy cold reading."

"What about--"

"Everything else was even less impressive and you know it."

"Look, Bette, what if--what if we move to New York after I get my Master's, huh? What if you just stay here until then...and, after that, I'll go anywhere you want to go. Just...please don't leave me here, not now. Of all times, not now."

"This isn't going to work, Toby. The Fulbright's my gateway...but you can't see that."

"I just..."

"You can't let go of me. You have to see me every second. You're so jealous, so overprotective, so--"

"Hey, hey!"

"I want to break up with you." The words hovered in the air for a moment, as if tempting Bette to reach up for them and take them back. She didn't.

"No, Bette, no. That's not what I--"

"We're done, Toby," Bette stated flatly. She jumped up. "I only wish I had realized that years ago." She paused before whispering, "Good-bye."

"Bette..."

"Bye, Toby."

Bette shuddered. The carton of eggs still lied before her, a dozen shells fearing their fatal smashes. Bette picked up an egg from the far left side of the carton and squeezed it softly in her hand. It felt cold and fragile, just as she expected a refrigerated egg to feel. She tapped it against the tiny glass bowl sitting on the counter until it broke in two. Bette spilled all of its contents into the bowl. Then she pulled a fork out of the drawer in front of her and stabbed the bulbous yoke. She glanced down at it, as if to inspect the damage. Bette released a small breath she had not been aware she was holding. A second later, she focused her gaze at the wall in front of her, divining where each cockroach lay in waiting behind the tiles.

Bette whirred her wrist, beating the egg quickly and nervously. Faster and faster, the yolk danced with the egg white. In unison, they galloped around the bowl until they collided. They collided again and again, mingling like over-eager boys and girls at a junior high mixer. After ramming into each other several times, they began merging into one entity until they formed a light yellow soup. Bette continued beating the egg, clanking the fork against the glass bowl, even past the point of completely mixing the egg white and yolk. She shivered at the thought of cockroaches roaming across her entire body. When she finally considered that the eggs might be done, Bette glanced down.

The egg goo, still spinning around the bowl, was not just egg goo. Bette furrowed her brow and bit her lip. Two little foamy dolphins rotated around the bowl, swimming in a sea of yellow yolk. Bette yelped, terror, grief, and confusion all competing for space on her face. She threw the bowl on the floor, sending the egg goo flying through the air. The egg goo hit her shirt, her pants, her feet. The bowl shattered.

Bette gulped and mumbled something incoherent. Then she wiggled her bare toes and scampered to the refrigerator. She opened the door and picked out a packet of pink ham. Mold grew at its purple edges.

"I'm going to be famous one day, Toby," Bette muttered to herself, "So don't get in my way."