There is a pleasure to fried eggs. Fried eggs over easy. Take a fork and plunge the tines into the heart of the yolk, the rich golden yolk in its curved sac. There is a piquant ooze. The golden yolk oozes over the smudged white of the albumen, and leaks into the crispy edge of sourdough, its heart open to the morning.
The rising sun wonders where to go, where to seep next, what now needs warmth and light in this little cafe clinging to the edge of Heeley Street. Just as these hands stand frozen, contemplating missed opportunity, contemplating a lost plan. Where to now for these hands, stranded in the morning sun? The yolk is but a golden smear, devoid of white. The mushrooms remain as they began, in their little huddle splattered with parsley, curly green shards of parsley.
A way through will be found, perhaps. Enjoy.