No Satisfaction / by Cyle Talley

Beth, roused by her alarm clock, pulls back the covers and sits upright. Her slippers are on the floor, toes pointed out, so that she can step into them. Her robe hangs from the bedpost so that she can wrap it around herself as she stands.

Beth goes into the kitchen and starts the coffee pot. It gurgles and spits and drips. She puts the skillet on the stove top, drops a pat of butter into it, and turns the dial to hear that lovely click click click click whoosh sound of the flame igniting. 

Beth turns to the refrigerator for the eggs and finds none. Her shoulders slump as she recalls making the last of them yesterday morning. She'd made a mental note to go to the grocery store after work, but completely forgot. It had been a very long yesterday.  

This is frustrating. Now there will be no breakfast and no satisfaction and she has no one to blame but herself. She is the one who ate the last two eggs. She is the one who forgot to go to the grocery store. The cat is not culpable, nor is the ficus. There is no sibling, no roommate, no boyfriend. 

Beth goes into the bathroom, flips the light on, points at herself in the mirror and asks, 

"How could you do such a thing?"