Eggs Benedict

Carl and I brunched at a little first floor bistro a few minutes
from the centre. It had heavy maroon drapes and sold packs of playing
cards with its name, Jeu de Cartes, written on the back of every one.
Back in Spring, we went, when the sun shone grapefruit yellow and the
whip of the wind still made your neck hairs prickle.

After some umming and ahhing I settled on French toast and a latt?.
Carl let me persuade him into ordering a glass of orange juice and the
eggs Benedict. The hollandaise sauce was freshly prepared; a lightly
cooked, beaten egg yolk, gently thickened with hot butter and flavoured
with a squirt of lemon juice. All too often an eatery will try to fob
you off with the instant stuff. Not Jeu de Cartes.

We had a table by the frosted glass window. The light was choked and
sickly, just how I like it. I hadn't had much sleep; the headaches were
still keeping me up. My features were gaunt and drawn. I adjusted my
collar, gave my tie one sharp tug. I looked like a bloodhound with a
lot on its mind.

"Yeah," said Carl, sniffing and scuffing a napkin back and forth
against his nose. "I never ripped in a virge before." Carl had his eggs
done over easy. He sawed at his gammon round with a look of impatience.
"What's it like?"

"Nice," I said.

Carl frowned, stopped sawing. "But it's all bloody and, and minging,
in't it? I don't get the appeal."

I stirred the last of the Demerera sugar into my latt? and tapped the
dripping teaspoon against the white rim of my cup, tink-tink-tink. The
sound acted like the focalising peremptory clack of a conductor's
baton. Carl blinked at me, his loaded yolky fork hovering before his
open mouth.

"Well," I said, gazing up towards the juddering ceiling fan, "you know
when you open a brand new jar of conserve, and-"

"A what?"

"A jar of jam."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah."

"It's got that little round safety button on top, that shows the jar's
still pressurised. You put your hand on the lid, you tighten your grip,
you give it a little twist and there's a fsssh&;#8230;" I dropped my
teaspoon into the saucer, stuck an index finger into my mouth and made
a popping noise.

"Yeah." Carl mopped up a swirl of hollandaise with the eggy swatch of
muffin impaled on the end of his long-toothed fork.

"You know how satisfying it is when you hear that first pop, when you
know you're the first one to lift that button and taste the sweet,
zesty jam inside?"

"Yeah."

"That's what it's like." Carl stared at me for a moment. I had all but
decided that his expression was one of confusion when he guffawed,
spattering flecks of chewed up egg across the tablecloth and down his
T-shirt.

"Nah mate, nah," he snorted, using the napkin to dab at his chin, "I
reckon you're feeding me a jackanory!" He shook his head. "As if a
bird's vadge goes pop when you take her v-plates." People were
beginning to stare.

"There's no noise," I said.

"But you-"

"What I mean is&;#8230;" I paused, bit a half-moon out of my toast.
"What I mean is," I continued, lowering the volume slightly, "the
satisfaction you get from deflowering a virgin is the same kind of
satisfaction you get from opening a fresh jar of con&;#8230; of
jam."

"But there's blood and all that, yeah?"

I looked away. "Sometimes." Carl rested his knife on the edge of his
plate. He picked up his glass of orange juice, didn't drink it, just
stared into it.

"I never told you. My Bess dropped a sprog once. Beautiful, it was. All
tiny and, and perfect. Stillborn. I told her to quit the fags
but&;#8230; she never." Carl threw his head back and downed the
orange juice in a single hit. The crystal tumbler returned to the table
with a thump. I tried to rest my hand on his but he pulled away. He
took a pack of Superkings from his pocket stuck one into the corner of
his mouth.

"Carl, I don't think you can&;#8230;" But the cigarette was already
lit, thick, dry lips already pursed, and the rest of my protestation
quietly died. I listened to the crackle as he inspired, watched tresses
of smoke twist and plait. As I considered asking for the bill, he
allowed my fingers to thread between his.