TWO POACHED EGGS

by Rose Dodd

“Are they Heinz beans?” “No, they’re homemade.” “Oh right, okay. I’m not that keen on homemade beans. Do you have Heinz beans?” “No, only homemade.” “Oh right, okay . . . hold the beans.” “So, one full English, no beans.” Marguerite redirected her attention to the man-from-the-television’s counterpart, who she assumed was his wife. “And for you?” “Actually, do you mind,” he cut in, “can I have an extra sausage instead of the beans?” “I suppose so.” “Thanks. So yes, one full English. No beans. Sausage.” Again, she turned to his wife — or, ‘wife’. “And for you?” “I’ll ha—” “She’ll have the avocado on toast with spring onions, toasted seeds, spina—” “The avocado. Got it.”

It was quiet out at this time, but for the cawing of gulls overhead. The streets, lined with large terraced houses and fancy sports cars, would soon be populated by cityfolk in corporate garb en route to justify their means. Marguerite moved the weighty, metal chairs outside as swiftly as she could. They nipped at her fingers as she unfolded them. “Well, are you going to serve me?” asked a voice, firm and camp. “We don’t open for ten minutes.” “Right. Well, I’m a regular.” She walked over to the man in the cable knit jumper, pulled taut over his paunch. Beside him stood a proud grey worm-like dog in a waxed jacket. It sniffed at her groin, brazenly. “Say hello, Maisie,” he said to the dog in a babying tone. “And you, I don’t know you, who are you?” “Marguerite.” “Say hello, Marguerite.” Again, the babying tone. As she bent down to pet the dog, Maisie shied from her hand. “Jonathan. Regular. You’re new.”

She wondered what made someone a regular. Was it a self-assigned vocation, like ‘writer’ or ‘actor’? Did it give one some sort of droit de seigneur — first right of refusal on a pain au chocolat?