Sunny Side Up

A pair of no longer sunnyside up eggs spatters across the kitchen linoleum. Mom is still yelling when the cast iron skillet smacks into the floor. The clanging pan quiets like the breathing of someone being sedated. Mom’s screeching stops and she puts on a face that would be considered blank if her lips didnt resemble puckered stitches. She smoothes down the front of her Ann Taylor slacks, snatches the keys from the counter, and heads to the front door.
'I want those floors mopped before I get home,' she twists the knob and is gone.
PJ looks at dad, then at me, but we are occupied by the carcass of breakfast staring back at us from the grey tile. PJ slugs down his remaining coffee, 'Christ dad', and leaves. How many times had something like this happened since they got married?
Just a second ago dad was whistling 'Gum Drop' by the Crew Cuts. We used to do duets to that song when I was younger. 'She’s my sugar and spice…everything nice.' He was making his 'Special Sunday Brunch,' and wanted to get mom up and surprise her.
Had I slurped my juice too loudly? Had PJ stayed out too late? Or was it dad’s call that 'Honey, the eggs are done. You ready yet?' That was it. Because somehow she had deemed dad’s waking her as an order, as if she was our dog Sheba, and she was being forced to go outside. Sheba would nip when you tried to shove her out the back door. The type of nip that said, 'I love you', but don’t push me. The way mom bit back, however, made us question the 'I love you.'
My cup seemed to be attached to my bottom lip, so I set it on the table like it was a precious heirloom and realized I couldn’t look at my dad.
'You heard you’re mother, get this mess cleaned up before you go anywhere,' his words trailed off as he went into his bedroom to get ready for work.
The eggs stared back at me like Horace’s shattered eye must have done back when fractions were discovered.