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Written with Anna Harrington

(Anna) When the egg broke, Velma knew she was in trouble. It started with breakfast. Oh, it seemed like such a simple little meal... a few bacon strips, a piece of toast, a bowl of cereal -- she had no idea that eggs burned so easily, or that they make such good projectiles in fits of anger at nine a.m. But then again, he had it coming...

(Jason) "What the fuck is this?" he had said when he sat down. She stared at his stupid little Jerry Garcia tie that made him believe that he hadn't entirely sold out. The eggs were right there, right there on the plate, right in scoopable distance...

(A) "Breakfast. You know -- breakfast. Normal people have breakfast. Some every day, in fact." She hated the Jerry Garcia tie. It only reminded her of his past as an "artist" in Wicker Park, of the man she didn't know who lived pre-accountant-on-Wacker-job of his. It made her uncomfortable. "Isn't he dead?" she asked.

"Yes..." He touched the eggs with his fork. "Are they supposed to be so... so crunchy?"

"Why do you want to wear a dead person on your chest?"

(J) "God. This again." He sighed, instinctively reached for the cigarettes that were no longer there. "The Dead was an important part of my maturation process." He poked at the eggs with his fork. "I told myself I'd never grow up and disregard that part of my life. Never apologize..." He looked up at the clock on the wall. "...Never forget."

"Well, congratulations," she said. "You got it half right. You never grew up."

(A) Damn, he wanted a cigarette. They traded off each other's nasty habits in compromise when they moved in together six months ago -- he gave up cigarettes, she gave up Barbra Streisand. Maybe she was going through withdrawal symptoms, too. If he hummed a few bars from Yentel...

"...and you were never young," she continued. "Sometimes I think you were born middle-aged."

"I'm only twenty-seven."

"Exactly. Do we have ketchup?"

(J) "We've got mustard," he said. "I don't want mustard."

She walked over to the refrigerator. "Besides," she said, her head in the fridge, "you've told me your Dead story before. It's pathetic. You and your fraternity brothers would road trip to Ann Arbor every June, drinking goddamn Bud Light the whole way, and you'd get trashed inside the show and make fun of all the hippies." She pulled out the mustard, slammed it on the table. "How is that part of your maturation process?"

He looked at her, then bent down to his plate again, smelling the bacon cautiously. "So what do you want to do today?" he said.

She sighed. "I want to be a superhero."

(A) Maybe just a few bars of Streisand...

"I'm having an affair," she admitted quietly.

"Oh."

"Oh? Oh? Is that all you can say?"

He paused. "Memories... light the corners of my mind..."

Velma threw the egg and hit him in the chest, right between Jerry Garcia's eyes.

He said nothing. Slowly he wiped the egg off his chest.

"Oh well," she forced a laugh, turned back to the stove. "He was dead anyway."