Twenty-Seven Months

Twenty-seven months.  It had taken twenty-seven months, three weeks, and two and a half days—to the minute, to the second—to that second… Twenty-seven months to get those eggs from the doting chicken who laid them to this time and place.  Frozen in suspended animation, smuggled across borders, crossing and criss-crossing enemy lines, bejeweled behind jewelry boxes or carted in crates—at one point even doubling as the Earthen eyeballs of a giant stuffed likeness of Ambassador Reveveveicez.  And now—here, at this critical moment of truth—critical for me, for Macie—for the whole of human civilization, really (you included); she made of twenty-seven months of travel a disaster like this.  A…well, actually, a quite stirring rendition of a traditional breakfast.  “Delicious,” she cooed, as she stirred the pan.  “Delicious,” I shrugged.  And she stirred some more.  If the making of your last meal makes it your last meal, you might as well eat it.  “How do you like your eggs,” she asked, flicking the eggshells from her hair.  Flicking like it was nothing—like it was rain just fallen and sparkly as glitter.  I just stared.  Stunned, I tell you.  Absolutely stunned.  I’d never been asked such a question in all my life.  I looked to the egg, looked to the pressed and now de-pressed red button, to the red-handed Macie caught in her own act of rebellion—and I knew just what to say, for once.  I knew, once and for all: