Roger Starts an Omelet
The amphetamine diet of his twenties had faded into pensive memory and as Roger stood whisking eggs for a Denver omelet on his thirty-first birthday he wondered if he mightn’t have used just two eggs. He wondered if one less egg in an omelet and two percent milk — or even skim though god knows it doesn’t taste as rich — if a dozen such tiny sacrifices stretched over his autobiography since college, since marriage, since Nadine’s miscarriage mightn’t have held his expanding waistline at bay for a few more golden years of radiant youth. He thought of his once-thick hair and formerly toned muscles. He added another spoonful of milk to the eggs.
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