Please Don’t Talk About Eggs Tonight

It’s hard to talk about eggs when you’ve got other things on your mind.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2016 zine.

He was swiveling around the frying pan when I came in. “I Love the Nightlife” was playing, loud. Oddly enough, the only part he was trying to sing was the part he definitely couldn’t sing: “on the disco ra-ha-oooouuu—”

It smelled like eggs. With the music blaring, he apparently hadn’t heard me come in.

Keys to his apartment. That was one of those minor developments I treasured. Even though I’d had 24-hour unlimited access to him before, a second key was official. Or as official as this was going to get while remaining a secret.

Just think of all those people in the world without a key to Starsky’s apartment.

Just think of all those women without a key. On second thought, maybe don’t think of All Those Women.

He threw a hand out extravagantly at the chorus. At what point should I tell him he’s being observed? He’d only dance my way, then.

I walked softly across his cluttered living room, inadvertently steering my head into his mechanical mobile. I grabbed it to silence the clanging. He was always looking for parts to add to it, which made gift-giving easy. Happy birthday, here’s an old stemlock nut I found in the gutter—er, I mean, especially for you.

Saxophone solo. He was waving the spatula, visually mapping the musical runs. He was catching every note, it seemed. He’d heard this song many times. Hadn’t we all. But he was one of those people who listened to it on purpose.

I rounded the counter into the kitchen and swiftly crossed to him, throwing my arms around his torso.

He yelled in surprise. I caught him in a tighter hug as he tensed, then relaxed. “Don’t make me take away that key,” he said. He was wearing the white sweatshirt that he insisted should go inside-out. He looked like a lamb in it. Or a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“Feels better this way,” he’d said. If there was a person on this earth who wanted to be comfortable, it was Starsky. I’d witnessed more than one girlfriend hand feed him at his half-lidded request, legs propped up on whatever. And let me tell you, it made a Midwestern boy nervous. It made an ex-Lutheran pull on his collar and wonder if his partner was like that in other situations—generous in a way that receives rather than gives. That gives by receiving. I’m not so good at that yet. Receiving communion is one thing, unconditional love another.

I reached a hand under the cotton and stroked his stomach. He tilted his head back in answer, making Some Sound. The sounds he made were numerous and hard to classify. But they all indicated an honesty of expression that was particular to him. The fluency of it forced me to give up some of the control I liked to brutalize myself with. In short, the goof was good for me.

“You hungry?” he asked.

In the meantime, I’d become fond of his right earlobe, and the newly familiar feeling of my cheek against his hair. “Yeah.”

He scraped at the skillet, tossing the eggs. “Time for the cheese,” he said, reaching for the fridge door.

I found his hand and brought it down. “No… No dairy for me.”

He sighed. “How ’bout green onions?”

Starsky opened the fridge and maneuvered over, digging through his shelves. I held on still, bending over with him as he went for the bottom drawer.

“Hutch!” He laughed. “You leech.”

I slid my hands over his and proceeded to puppet them around in search of green onions. We laughed until he hit his head against the shelf, knocking over two jars of mustard. (Then we laughed harder.) I straightened up and he emerged with scallions.

“Why the hell do you have two jars of mustard?”

“Huh? Ach!” He rushed over to the stove. The eggs were burning. Burnt. He swore, throwing the flame off. “Pizza?” he said hopefully.

“Mustard sandwiches?”

He put a lot of swing into the two steps it took to get to me and suddenly we were at it again. Two months. That was how long we’d been together, by the book. I got my key three days ago.

He took in handful after handful of my hair. “I like your hair best,” he said, a little shyly, which made it feel like a miracle. Minor developments included honest compliments, no longer cased within an insult within a joke, hoping to be recognized and dismissed at the same time. Though we still enjoyed our previous tactics sometimes.

Did he mean he liked my hair better than the rest of the hair in the world? Or that it was his favorite thing about me? He meant it was blond and I was Blondie and that thrilled him for some reason.

He would like blonds. It goes with Las Vegas somehow. God, in his warped heart of hearts he probably holds me as some kind of bedazzled ice skater figurine in a Nordic pinball machine.

Well, am I? A bit.

I made him eggs in the morning, with cheese.