"How do you know it's mine?"
"Don't say 'it,' say 'baby,' and what do you think - it's Simon's? Simon doesn't even read."
A scratch in the dirt.
A tap of an ash to the ground.
He looks up. He looks down. He juts his chin, out in out in straining to see down the lane.
Trying to make out his newly wrecked future.
Another sigh. He knows she's right. He remembers the night, the party, the afterparty, the dust the dirt.
He smiles slightly remembering before his face falls again, and he says, "Okay, fine. Just tell me your demands."
She frowns and hawks her voice with indignation. "You should know. You. With me.
Only me. Not Jennifer. Not Gina. No one. Ever again."
More sighs, more chin jutting.
More ground scratching.
He turns to go, but looks back over his shoulder.
She says, "What're you waiting for? Might as well go break the news to your old biddies."
He shuffles away, all strut gone from his walk.
With smug satisfaction, and a dab of self-righteousness, Alyssa repositions herself over her egg. Then raising her bottom up, smacks down hard, harder than a mother would, once twice three times. Criiiiiiiiiiiick it breaks and splits into two perfect halves. The inner walls perfectly slick, eastery-plastic, hollow and empty.
Her red-ribbed feet tuck each half carefully under the edge of the nest.
Out of sight.
Never know when he might need another lesson in fidelity.