I squat and extrude a large mushroom-coloured egg, dripping with gleet.
The process is extremely painful, and I cry a little.
Hours later, when I am long gone, the shell hairline-splinters
with a high, quavering note, drawing the attention
of the restaurant's staff. A maitre'd scowls at the mess
with the arrogance customary to his people.
At the first glimpse of the forage cap, his mood only darkens.
Then the capillaries in his eyes burst, his throat contracts,
he faceplants into the dauphinoise potatoes.
The pianist continues to play, unruffled,
and a patron claps thick, rough palms,
calling for more rioja.
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