Making Omelets

Sitting down at the battered companion he called a dining table, fork in hand, slow tears seeped into his vision. He gulped another mouthful of tea and wept in thanks at the savor of the eggs.

Sunlight waned outside in the deepening evening.  The lamp on the table flickered in argentine lambency. He watched the flame dance in conversation with a breeze slinking through the open window.  The omelet disappeared under the insistent bulldozer of his appetite.

Wiping his face on the linen napkin he had carefully placed on the scarred wood, the old man finished the dinner.  His breath scraped over his teeth to fill his lungs.  Holding it, he counted ten slow exhales and grieved over the inescapable violence of needing to live.