I like my eggs scrambled but I bet you like them fried. You pretended once that you wanted it boiled with soldiers on the side. You remind me life is better when your eggs are sunny side up. It would make you smile, sharing all that wisdom. You’d sit with the fork and knife, poised, ready for action.
I wonder maybe you fancy them poached today? You don’t remember the taste so you want notice the acidity. Maybe you’ll take it with toast on the side? Maybe with a croissant? Maybe in a bap? Maybe with a bagel?
You’re such a positive person. That’s what they’ll say.
They look back through our family album. They’ll say, oh look how happy they were. How could this have happened?
I make your breakfast as usual this Monday. I add a teaspoon of poison (the best £25 can buy) in your poached eggs and toast. A special treat for my special someone and watch you march right into the trap I have set.
When you’re convulsing on the floor later, when I am told you won’t make it, when the police question how a perfectly happily married, when they handcuff me, I scream out it’s not my fault.
[you could play Cell Block Tango here if the audience is right and it doesn’t seem crass]