My egg lady has been discovered. No longer can I walk up, choose between small, medium or jumbo, hear a bit of farm fodder, pay and move on. Now I've got to wait in line.
"These eggs are worth waiting for," a man told the woman in line behind him. "They're real yellow." He emphasized yellow as if it were a word of romance, letting its ending linger. He gazed faraway. Remembering.
Get a grip, I thought. It's a damn egg. But his comment has had me take a second look. My scrambled eggs are yellow. Canary yellow. I guess I've been taking them for granted.