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A Morning Egg in the Trumbull Dining Hall

Knock, knock. A crack. Tap. More cracks. Peel—an attempt, at least. I press the egg onto the table. The translucent white bounces back, just enough to let me know it’s there. I pick up a knife and cut into the egg, watching the deep yellow seep out. It’s inevitable. Kind of like my day. I’m wearing my hoodie with the hood all the way up so that it covers most of my face, and I’m letting my polka-dot pajama pants sag just enough to be embarrassing. As if no one can see me cutting open an egg in the dining hall every morning during the 9 a.m. lecture I never attend. I don’t want to think about it. So I salt, pepper, and swallow. When I leave, there are always five or so small shards of shell stuck to the table, to a napkin, or to the bottom of my shoe. I leave, walking on eggshells.

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