Yolks by Lucinda Kemp

The kid popped the yolk from the hard-boiled egg. He tossed it near the shrubs. I looked at the broken pieces of shell in the dirt under the bench as I silently ate my sandwich.

“Shells are good for the grass," said the woman with severe short-cropped hair sitting next to the kid. “They have calcium. Want another?" Without waiting for his reply, she got up and went back into the deli.

I guessed she wasn’t his mother. A couple of black birds approached the yellow ball now speckled with dirt. They poked at it with their bills.

My throat felt dry. I hadn’ t bought a drink when I got the sandwich. I ate the coleslaw instead, in case I choked. The man with the woman and kid, wearing sunglasses and a hat, spooned what looked like layers of yogurt and fruit into his mouth.

“These are the last two," the woman said, reappearing with the eggs and placing them in front of the kid.

“You want a piece of this?" she asked the man. She was eating a sandwich full ofmayonnaise,sort of like mine.

“Nah, maybe later."

More shell fell to the ground. Another yolk flew into the shrubs and landed in the gully near theroots. I finished my half of the chicken salad, kind of sad that I hadn’ t bought a drink before.

They’d all looked too sweet. Too late now.

The birds scattered as the third yolk joined the second one. The two yolks, in the shallow gullynear the shrub, reminded me of two abortions, many moons ago.

I wondered what the clinic had done with their remains.


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