Faces in Plates of Scrambled Eggs

“The bitch just wants my money!” Joe stresses. He crushes a low cigarette into a buttery hunk of toast. Neither of us have finished our plates.

“Duh,” I retort. Carol has always treated Joe like shit. But he loves her. They've broken up & gotten back together way too many times. Joe loves her. I don't get it. Carol's face reminds me of a goofy, whinnying cartoon horse. She's been married 3 times & has had

children by each of the ex-husbands. The ex-husbands have all mysteriously vanished from the planet. She's angry she receives no monetary or emotional support. I've seen her slap her oldest son across the back of his head for nothing. I've heard her screaming about messy rooms, undone dishes, nobody ran the vacuum. Joe lives there now, & I've visited. Joe acts like an apologetic slave. I've heard Carol grunt & make noises like tickled swine. She makes me ill, especially since Joe reveals, in great detail, highlights of their sexual adventures. He insists Carol gives the best blowjobs of any blowjob he's ever had in his life. I don't want to imagine the image. I eat my vodka for erasure. Joe slams his 6th shot & grins.

“I can't help but love her,” Joe continues. I've heard it all before, many times.

“YOU ASSHOLE.” I try to brush the topic away. We've worked 3rd shift & also sat at Hunter's Inn. Now we're sitting at my kitchen table. I've made breakfast, & I've made a mess. We're drunk. We had Doc's special Coffee Royale they make in Italy to start their days, or so he told us from the old morning bar at Hunter's. Steamy black coffee & a shot of whiskey, topped by a splash of Ouzo. We gulped several cups. Then we guzzled cold drafts for a while before weaving to my house. “GET A FUCKING GRIP!”

I open my eyes before dusk. Across the table Joe snores & snorts in his eggs. In 2 hours we'll be back at work.

From Ron’s book Factory Fables 2017