The Egg Said Nothing (5 page)

She reached down and unbuttoned my pants; I reached down and unbuttoned hers. We shimmied out of our restraints and stood there, inches away from one another, her in her black bra and matching underwear, me in my striped boxer briefs.

She pushed me backwards gently, but forcefully. I fell down on the bed. She crawled over me. I watched as she approached, her skin folding and stretching in delicate creases. I put my hand on her rib cage and slid it down to her stomach, my wrist at an awkward angle. She kissed me hard, and I felt her teeth behind her lips. I put my hand on her hip and traced the line between her underwear and her skin.

“What’s that?” She kissed me again; I squeezed her thigh, digging my fingers into her fleshy posterior.

“What?” I breathed in her breath. She licked my lips like they were Popsicles.

“That.” She pointed.

“Oh, that’s my egg.” I grasped the back of her head with my free hand, letting my fingers tangle in her hair.

“Your what?” She flattened herself across my body. So much of her was pressed against so much of me.

“My egg.” I threw my weight to one side and flipped us over.

“Oh.” She hooked her thumbs around the waistband of my underwear.

~Chapter 7~

In which the narrator experiences true happiness for a brief time, then finds his egg smashed on the floor.

My eyelids were heavy when I awoke. They didn’t want to move. Of course, there was no reason for them to; I was content to be exactly where I was. But I wanted to see where I was again. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t asleep on the couch by myself, my arm only numb because of the awkward way I was lying.

Opening my eyes, I saw what I wanted to see. It was beginning to darken as the late afternoon sun started to leave the room, perched nonchalantly on the edge of the window like an overfed cat. I felt Ashley’s chest swell and fall with each easy breath, the soft skin sliding underneath my arm. I couldn’t help but squeeze her tighter to my chest.

The added pressure to her body roused her. I was far from disappointed, as the sound of her voice would be quite welcome. I felt an active need to have her eyes on me, just to be the focal point of her moment. Every second I spent with her was a second she could never take back.

“Hey,” she said, snuggling into my chest. I ran my hand over her smooth stomach, allowing it to rest there.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re still here.” Her face was turned away from me, but I could tell she was smiling.

“I am,” she said. “How do you feel about that?”

“I’m pretty fucking thrilled, to tell the truth,” I replied. Her laugh warmed the room even more than the lazy sunlight. “How do you feel about it? Any reservations?”

“Nope. I feel wonderful, but I think I’ll have to go soon,” she said.

“I’m not throwing you out,” I offered.

“No, but I’ll have to get up eventually. I have to feed my fish.”

“Your fish?”

“Yeah. A slimy orange swimming thing. It lives in water.”

I suddenly wished her fish had died a long time ago. “Oh, that kind of fish.”

“Yeah, that kind.” Holding the sheet to her chest, she rolled over to face me. She bit her bottom lip. “What do you think of me?”

“I think you’re perfect,” I replied truthfully.

“Even though we just met and I’m here in your bed? You don’t think…” she trailed off. Her hands gripped the sheet more tightly now, as if everything that was going to happen was contingent on the next string of words to be expelled from my mouth.

“I think you’re an incredibly strong person,” I said. “And I see this is something you would have rather had gone differently. But you’re willing to take a risk on something as fleeting as a feeling, and I think that’s awesome.”

“But what if going so fast ruins us? What if I’ve just severed any chance at a real connection?”

“What is a connection?” I asked. “Is it some defined number of months? Is it knowing someone’s shoe size? No, it’s something bigger than that.”

“I guess you’re right,” she said, hopefully resigning herself to the idea.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I reasoned. “Let’s throw convention to the wind and scatter its ashes like some old dead aunt. And when anyone asks, we’ll say we’ve been together for a year. If that lady in the Laundromat thought it plausible, why shouldn’t it be?”

“That sounds pretty good,” she said, looking quite relieved. Gently, I nudged her face upwards with my forehead and found her lips. Whatever her brain wouldn’t accept, I tried to explain to her through her mouth. She kissed me softly, but pulled away suddenly. “My god, my breath must be awful.”

“It’s good,” I said, moving in again. She clasped her hand over her mouth.

“Sweet, but no.”

She slid away from me. When she got to the edge of the bed, she looked down and reached her hand out, gathering her underwear from the floor and putting it on under the covers. She stood and started her walk around the bed. Her underwear was riding up slightly from where she had pulled it on so quickly. With every step it rode a little higher. Absentmindedly, she adjusted it as she scanned the floor. She found her bra near the door, turned away from me and put it back on.

Still, the view I had was near perfect. Ashley’s body was outlined in sunlight, giving me the opportunity to commit the shape of it to memory. She lifted her jeans from the floor and climbed into them, smoothing the fabric with her hands.

She looked at me as she picked up her shirt, aware, obviously, that she was being watched. It seemed as though she was telling me that what I was doing was okay. Good. I was no longer willing to pretend I wasn’t staring, that this infatuation hadn’t completely taken over. She raised her arms above her head to put her shirt on, stretching her torso in a way that was probably almost as satisfying to her as it was to me.

“I’m going to go,” she said, smashing my heart with a giant cartoon anvil.

“When am I going to see you again?” I asked.

“Later on tonight. You’ll be up?” she teased.

“I’ll set my alarm.”

She walked over to me. “Turn your head,” she commanded. I obeyed, grateful for the opportunity. She kissed me so softly on the cheek I wasn’t sure it had actually happened. “I will see you later.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” I listened as she walked away from my bed and towards the front door. I rushed out after her, locked all the locks and went back to the bedroom.

My egg was smashed all over the floor, its shell broken. Amid the destruction, there was a disc, nestled safely in a protective plastic case.

“Motherfucker.”

~Chapter 8~

In which the narrator learns the true meaning of the egg.

I knelt down and picked up the disc. Turning it over in my hand, I looked for some identifying mark. What the hell was it? I stood up and walked over to the bed to sit down.

What did all this mean? How in the world did the egg break? It was so safe in its nest. Looking at the eggshell fragments hurt physically; this was something I cared for. I nurtured it and looked after it. I kept the fucking thing warm.

Standing, I gripped the disc tightly in my hand and walked over to the computer. I put the disc in the drive and gave it time to load. After a few seconds, a window appeared, asking me if I wanted to play the content on the disc. I confirmed that I did and waited. My media player popped up and began loading an image. It was sort of grainy, but I could make out my front door, the back of my couch, the television. This video was filmed right where I was sitting. On my webcam.

I looked at the small camera accusingly. It came with the machine, but wasn’t the sort of technology for which I’d found any use. Apparently someone had. I waited a few seconds and watched as a figure sat down in my chair.

It was me.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. I didn’t do this. I hadn’t made this.

Had I?

“I know what’s going through your head right now, but do your best to stop thinking,” my likeness said.

Let’s see what I’ve been doing in my sleep
, I thought.

“What I’m about to tell you is really, really fucking hard to believe.”

Oh, you’re kidding. This seems pretty straightforward. I’m fucking nuts.

“The timeline for all this shit is going to get confusing, but I’m going to go really slow. I made this video at 7 p.m. tonight. If you’re wondering, it is about 6 p.m. where you’re sitting at the moment. Look at the time on the computer.”

I looked. 5:43 p.m.

“Yes, seven o’clock tonight is about an hour and change in the future. Take a moment to accept this as a fact.”

An hour from now? How could that be? I looked out the window; sunlight still seeped through. I turned around to see how it draped across the couch like a glowing stain. I faced the computer screen again. The couch was dark. It was nighttime whenever the video was made. Either that, or the window was covered. But why would I lie to myself?
Forget everything I know
, that’s what I’d said. Fucking listen.

“Okay, good reasoning,” my mirror said as soon as I had made a decision. “I am making this video slightly in the future. I, myself, am from a good deal farther into the future. About twenty years, in fact. I look exactly like you do now because, when I came back, I had to make my appearance in a pre-existing form. What this means is that, in about an hour, you will make this video.”

That’s easily verifiable. I just needed to wait an hour.

“Now, I need you to go into the kitchen. I’ve written you a letter explaining everything. It’s in the refrigerator.” My double reached over, grabbed the mouse and clicked something. The video ended.

Too weird
, I thought.

I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was two days prior that I was last in there, and there sure as hell wasn’t any letter. But there it was: a neat stack of papers sitting on the top shelf. I reached out and picked them up. They were written in my own distinctly sloppy handwriting. There was a date at the top: February 2, 2046.

I shook my head and closed the refrigerator door. Walking out to the couch, I stared at the papers, baffled. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. This was fucking crazy.

Okay, I know this shit is absolutely nuts. You’ve watched the video, so I hope you’re starting to get what’s going on. I made the video so you’d have more evidence that what I’m saying—what you’re saying—is true. I know you’ll come to accept it because, well, I’ve lived it. Anyway. Moving on.

In the near future, you’re going to undergo a very significant change. You’re going to be hit with the biggest idea of your life, which, coincidently, is the most important achievement of your generation.

At around eight o’clock tonight, Ashley will knock on your door, looking for affirmation that everything that has transpired between you is true.
You’re going to reassure her, as you will for the next month or so. She’ll grow to understand your feelings for her and will become more secure. As it turns out, she really loves you. She was stricken, apparently,
by the way you looked at her in Pete’s. Although she’s fucking gorgeous, she’s never had anyone look at her like that. Gents have lusted after her and tried to claim her, but none have simply appreciated her. You’re going to change her definition of masculinity.

And, coincidently, you’re going to change how virtually everyone sees gender. In about ten years. You’ll plant the seed in about five, but it will take time to germinate. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Tonight, you and Ashley will leave your apartment. You’re going to get in a cab and go to her place. While you’re there, you’ll watch a movie. It’s a shitty horror movie that she’s picked out just for you. It’s ridiculously sweet, and is the point at which you accept that she really likes you. After the movie is over, she’s going to take a phone call. It’s her mother, and it’s going to take a while. While you’re waiting, you’ll find yourself wandering around her apartment.
That musty smell you like? It’s
books. Her apartment is covered with them. You’ll pick one up. It’s called
A Vindication of the Rights of Women
. You flip through it and randomly open up to a page. On that page, you’ll read something revelatory.

When Ashley gets off the phone, you discuss it with her. You gain her perspective on things and formulate an idea. A rough version of the idea comes out of your mouth, and Ashley is going to think it’s brilliant. She’ll make you sit down and write it out so you don’t forget. The next day, you’ll work on it some more. You’re going to make several trips to the library, and you’re going to start talking to strangers, to anyone who’ll listen.

Eventually, you’ll put these thoughts down in a book. It’s going to be published and reviewed by all the right people. It’s going to be a phenomenon, and you’re going to be credited with creating a new theory of gender relations. This will cause a great power shift that results
in gender equality the likes of which the world has never seen. Actual balance will be close at hand, and you’ll be heralded as the savior of the contemporary family when the divorce rate plummets.

Why don’t I tell you what this revelation is now so we might get to this whole great thing faster? Because it must not happen.

Fringe groups will emerge, claiming you’re disrupting the natural order. Your opposition will be few in number, but will be starkly radical and violent. Their actions will result in the death of the third female president of the United States. This cannot happen.

Her death, you see, brought the process to a halt. She was the only hope this country had of changing things for good. She was killed at a tumultuous and critical time in the movement. If she lives, your idea—our idea—might be realized to its full potential.

I have taken steps to ensure your ideas will be realized—just not by you.

Then what is it you have to do? You must ensure certain events don’t happen. You must not make it to Ashley’s apartment. You must not read that book. As insurance, I have to insist on some drastic measures.