“How do you like your eggs?”

This simple question as a catalyst, his emotional dam bursting, within each other’s arms again, holding Elizabeth tightly, his head against her shoulder, Mitchell Lipensky cried.

Holding this man, “Shhh,” patting his back as one would an infant. “Shhh, baby.” Feeling his pain, truly feeling his pain, “I know, baby,” she said. “I know.”

Releasing Elizabeth, catching his breath, he swiped the palms of his hands across his eyes… then took the napkin she handed him. “Over easy,” forcing a weak smile. “I like my eggs over easy.”

“Okay,” smiling, “that’s good to know.”

  ______________________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

November 14, 1963 

A pot of coffee brewing, hoping there would be bacon or sausage to go along, but knew there wouldn’t as he watched her crack two eggs into a frying pan. “None for you?” he asked.

“Eggs?” She looked at him. “No,” dropping two slices of whole wheat bread into the toaster, “just toast for me.”

He watched as Elizabeth set the table with one dinner dish, a butter knife and fork—presumably for him—and a saucer for herself.

“Juice?”

“Yes, please.”

Going to the refrigerator, she removed a plastic container. “How’d it go this morning, with Sinclair?” Pouring half a glass, she placed it alongside the dish.

Leaning against the sink, “Good.”

Turning the eggs, “Really?” She looked at him. “How good?”

“Really good!”

Placing the toast onto a saucer, Elizabeth brought the dish to the table. “You…” sounding more as an accusation than a question, “like butter?”

“Uh, yeah. If you don’t mind?”

“Don’t have any butter, but there’s some Oleo in the fridge.”

Opening the refrigerator door, Uh, oh! For a man who’s two ongoing, life long passions had always been sex and food—not always necessarily in that order—Uh, oh! On the top shelf, alongside the orange juice container was a quart container of skim milk, a bottle of vinegar and another of light salad oil—the same oil his now burning eggs were frying in. On the middle shelf was a large mixing bowl with apples and oranges, and a second bowl overflowing with mixed raw vegetables. On the lower shelf, among a number of small bottles and odds and ends that one might put in a refrigerator, was a quarter pound stick of oleomargarine.

Reaching for his dish, scooping out the overly fried, hard yoked eggs before they burned more than they already had, laying them on the dish, she brought it to the table.

“Uh, how do you like your coffee?”

“Black.”

Learning a bit more about each other, “Me, too,” Elizabeth said.

The toaster popping, “I’ll butter,” Mitchell said.

“None for me, please.”

“That’s it for you, Liz?” Asked disbelievingly, “A cup of black coffee and one slice of dry toast?”

“No.” Going to the refrigerator, “I’ll have an orange too.”

                                                                    ****

Throughout the months of their “knowing each other”, they’d had lunch four times; each time meeting at Harding’s, where Mitchell would usually order a hamburger and Elizabeth never other than a salad, roasted chicken breast or broiled fish. And she always left a portion of whatever she’d ordered.

If love was one and the same as sex to Mitchell Lipensky, than sex and food were opposite sides of the same coin. And if this breakfast was an indication of Elizabeth Herzon’s cooking skills, she’d be graded with an “F.”

                                                                    ****

“I don’t suppose you have any, uh, like jelly?”

“No jelly, but I’ve apple butter, if that’ll do.”

“Yes, please.”

Opening a cabinet door, she rummaged about the bottles and small boxes. “Here we go.” Unscrewing the top of the jar… “Uh, oh!” Elizabeth showed Mitchell the ring of green fuzz. “Sorry.”

A half glass of orange juice, two somewhat burned, hard yoked eggs and one slice of whole wheat toast hardly what Mitchell would call breakfast. But, Spartan breakfast notwithstanding, for the first time sitting across a breakfast table with this fresh faced, young woman with the honey streaked hair, that…

His senses torn between the love he felt for Elizabeth and the breaking of his home, in comparison, although a bit disappointing, this terrible breakfast was not really all that important.

Peeling the orange, “You didn’t tell me.”

Watching her peel the orange, “What?”

Biting a section in half, chewing, “Sinclair. What did he order?”

Not quite the question he was expecting. “Oh, yeah.” Cutting through the yoke of one strange tasting, overly fried—in­ salad oil—egg. “A pretty good order: seven ­twenty-five 10 Transco’s and five hundred 10 regulars.”

“Million and a quarter envelopes! Not too bad an order for such a crummy day.”

Putting the rest of the orange section in her mouth, chewing, waiting till she swallowed, “So why now?”

Finishing the first egg and half of his one slice of toast, knowing what she meant, It would probably be best if I tell her I said it while conscious. Thinking, But, yeah, why now? And at three in the morning, yet?

Looking into Elizabeth’s questioning eyes, taking a sip of coffee before answering, deciding to go with the truth, “I was sleeping.”

“You were asleep?” she asked incredulously. “What do you mean you were sleeping?”

“I was asleep,” he said, lowering the cup. “I was talking in my sleep and said, ‘Lizzy, I love you.’”

“And she was, coincidentally, awake and heard you? And put two and two together?”

“Yeah. She said her period was starting and the cramps woke her.”

“You couldn’t deny this and pass it off as just a dream?”

Looking at the remaining egg, distastefully moving it around the dish with his fork. “To be honest I tried!”—Not wanting to deny his love of her.—“But,” haltingly, “you don’t know Marsha, and… For some reason she was staying calm, and I didn’t want her to get hysterical and wake the kids with this, so I… You know how much I love you, Liz, but Marsha kept pushing…” Looking up, his eyes on her eyes, considering lying. “But, to be honest,” looking away again, “I was really afraid to admit it, you know, that I love you, so I didn’t and then she slapped me…”

“You did not admit that you’re in love with me?”

Misunderstanding the question. “No, Liz,” speaking softly, “I did not. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! It’s good you didn’t admit it.”

“Good?

“And she hit you?”

“She slapped me, then told me to get out.”

Knowing some of the questions he would be asked by the lawyer. “You’re sure you never actually admitted that you love me,” she asked excitedly, “or that you and me have been seeing each other?”

“No… uh, yes, I never admitted that.”

“And she slapped you?”

A bit bewildered, “Yes.”

“And you didn’t slap her back?”

“No, of course not!”

“And then she told you to get out!”

“Yeah. She even got the suitcase out of the closet and started throwing my stuff in it.”

“Mitchie, let me ask you…” staring intently at him, “do you want to go through with this? Do you really want to be with me? To marry me?”