Eli thought about buying a lawn mower. He stood at the door looking at the backyard. He couldn’t attribute everything to the codeine however. Satisfied, he closed the oven and walked to the door and lit a cigarette, and then turned and opened the oven to the acidic pull in his stomach. It hadn’t been worth it, the middle still held uncooked egg whites. The blast of dopamine or whatever—in the ruts between the potatoes and the protruding broccoli and pumpkin—had compounded that feeling of worthlessness and lassitude.
And he was hungry now, which could, he figured, be the real source of his irritation since they had moved in. He thought, until tomorrow had grown unkempt at the fence line, there’s little feeling the cold-water extraction could produce in him.
And the edges of the sky had lost their blue and the following day—a day that had been causally linked to the frittata in the oven turning gold—had probably impacted his sense of well-being now. He’d just have to wait, this time annoyed by how unevenly the frittata was baking, and check that the edges of the frittata had not yet burned.
He noticed the grass and the clouds in the periphery were lilac and laced with pink. The middle still held uncooked egg whites. It was a day marked only by its absence of anything worthwhile or endearing or bright. Sure, he figured, he couldn’t attribute everything to the codeine. He checked the oven again; he believed the edges were too close to being cooked too soon. The following day would be when he would allow himself to start afresh. He recognised that it was more of a causal kind of thing.
He put his head in his hands and focused on the vague edges he felt in his gut. Using a guide he found online, he turned and opened the oven.