Disclaimer: I don't own Vocaloid in any way, shape of form.
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All of my life I though making omelets were easy.
Crack an egg.
Make sure to pick out the shell pieces.
Stir.
Fry.
Flip.
Eat.
Simple.
Not so simple.
Nothing is ever simple.
Just add rules.
"Don't touch your skin or hair."
"If it's an omelet, scoop one ladle of pre-mixed egg. Not a single drop more."
"If it's an egg, don't let it break."
"Don't use the same pan more than once."
"Apply spray thickly – but not too thick."
After all, they are watching. Always watching. Always.
Don't mess up.
Don't give them a reason to complain.
Remember.
They are always watching.
Don't mess up.
But I do.
I always do.
Sometimes when I flip the egg, I miss the pan. Do you mind waiting a little longer?
The egg got stuck to the pan – oops. I might have forgotten to apply spray.
Which toppings were yours again?
Wait…. You wanted scrambled eggs, not an omelet? ….Sorry.
"Make 'em hard." Excuse me?
No. It's not so simple after all.
It's hot.
It's foggy.
It's smuggy.
Sweat rolls down my skin in droplets, I feel gross.
My clothes and hair cling to my skin.
I'm suffocating.
I can't breathe.
The smell of cooked eggs have started to make me sick.
I hate wearing this stupid cap that doesn't fit right on my head.
I keep messing up.
I can't do anything right.
My shift doesn't end for another two hours.
People are rude.
People are unnecessarily demanding.
When will this hell end?
Should I quit?
Or should I just wait until I'm fired?
The answer is unclear.
And then you came along.
You were a someone that could have been anyone.
University hoodie.
Blonde hair.
Cargo shorts.
Black converse.
Beautiful blue eyes. Sorry – was I staring?
You asked for an omelet with a pile of greens, bacon and mushrooms.
Your hand grazed mine and I think my heart stopped.
I could have died.
But I didn't.
(Go me.)
I was nervous.
So, so nervous.
Heart pounding, fingers shaking, you were watching my every move.
How cruel of you.
Faking confidence, I reached for a pan.
Applying spray (thick but not too thick), I felt your eyes on my back.
Mild curiosity. Nothing more. I almost dropped the can.
Two eggs.
The second exploded in my hands.
You laughed, a melodious sound bursting from your lips.
I wanted to die of shame.
Wiping my hands on my apron, I tried again.
Success came with a breath of relief and from the corner of my eye I saw you smile.
Fire blazing, heart roaring, I watched the pan anxiously.
I mixed more than I should have.
I poked the egg too many times to be necessary.
All I had to do was wait patiently.
But I couldn't. Never in a thousand years.
Because you were watching. You were watching my every move.
My excuse was that I wanted to make sure it was well cooked.
But in reality, I just wanted it to be perfect.
Why?
Because it was yours.
It was simple as that.
Gathering my breath, I shook the pan to loosen up the egg.
Prepping my wrist, once, twice – it was all or nothing.
And as your omelet flew into the air, you watched.
With bright blue eyes, you watched my creation fly into the air.
Airborne, silence, there was only me, the omelet, and you.
Sizzling back onto my pan with unnatural perfection, our time together ticks down mercilessly.
Is this how you will remember me?
The girl with long teal hair and egg yolk smeared on her apron?
The girl with bright red cheeks who made your omelet one Wednesday morning?
Is that all we will ever be?
Without this omelet, is there nothing else?
The truth hurts.
Sprinkling the cheese with slow and precise carefulness, your eyes rested on my fingertips.
If only they'd stay there forever.
Adding on the greens, bacon and mushrooms, your omelet folds over beautifully.
It is the best omelet I've made all day.
But that is something you will probably never know.
It's ok.
I know how this ends.
Sliding your omelet onto your plate, I consider dropping the entire thing.
I want to watch it clatter onto the floor and burst into a million pieces.
I want to destroy what will never be.
I want to smother this one-sided love into non-existence.
But I don't.
Why?
Why?
Why?
I know why.
Because if anything else, even if you never realize, I want to give you this: my heart, my love, my omelet.
They are now yours.
Please treat them well.
Accepting your food, you smiled and said thanks.
Faking nonchalance, I responded, "No problem."
Picking up your plate, you took a step back.
And then…you froze.
Staring intently at me, you watched for something, nothing, I don't know.
You stopped.
Setting your plate back down on the counter, you looked at me a final time and took a bite.
Slow, thoughtful, sensuous.
"It's delicious."
I almost cried.
I'm proud I didn't.
The next day…..you came back.
Shaking off my surprise, I waited for your words.
Smiling warmly, you asked for your 'usual'.
Grabbing a fresh pan, my heart soared.
Me.
This omelet.
You.
And maybe one day….
It will just be
Me and You.
Hello dears. So good news - I'm not dead yet lol. I'm just in college now and jesus the adjustment period is harder than I'd thought it'd be. I'll be back….eventually. I promise. I haven't abandoned this site. I love you all too much to do that.
This is a mini story I guess. I just needed to write something. My fingers were burning with deprivation. I work in the omelet bar at my dorm's dining hall. It's not as easy as you'd think it'd be. I learned that one the hard way lol. Unfortunately, this was not a real life experience. Wish it was…..oh well. It'll happen ;) Wish me luck!
Until next time darlings.
-Sunset