What It Costs

The carton costs more than I remember.

I'm standing in front of the cooler,

doing the math: if he comes, we need breakfast.

If he doesn't, they'll sit in my fridge,

getting older, getting cheaper, getting easier to throw away.

Someone else might not notice the price.

Someone else might just grab and go.

But I'm the type who stands here calculating,

running the numbers backward and forward.

Eight ninety-nine. Two dozen eggs.

He said maybe. I said I'd make breakfast.

The sticker glows under the cooler light,

bright and clean, like an honest thing,

which is funny because nothing here is honest.

I'm buying for someone who hasn't decided to show.

If he shows, I'll crack them in a pan,

and I'll listen for his key in the door,

and the eggs will mean something,

and breakfast will be the start of something.

If he doesn't, I'll eat them alone,

and I'll taste the yolk and know

I was preparing for nothing,

and the eggs will taste like betrayal.

The price is what I'm willing to pay

for the permission to hope,

and apparently today that's eight ninety-nine

for the small act of buying for two.

I put them in my cart.

I always do.