Jay’s Resolution

   The mirror was covered in steam, so Jay could hardly see himself. He spied a triangular window where his eyes and nose poked through the steam-made clouds on the mirror’s reflective surface. He stood and watched the vapor dance and billow atop the sink, relishing in the warmth that blanketed his skin. The bathroom smelled of running water, and when he closed his eyes, Jay could picture himself sitting in a sauna.

  He cut the shower water off and sighed. Grabbing a towel, he dried himself off and wrapped the cloth around his waist. Traveling to his room, he shuffled his feet across the soft carpet in the hallway. He changed into clothes made for sluggish activities: a ratty, blue t-shirt with a stretched collar and mismatching, plaid sweat pants. His lips remained either taut and straightened or pursed. He picked up his phone from its place on his messy nightstand, and his brows furrowed immediately. Jay shook his head.

  “More of the same.” He shunned the news headlines appearing on the screen and set the phone down. “Breakfast time.” he decided, his lips relaxing with the flavorful possibilities.

  Jay had enjoyed cooking for the past few months, despite his initial hardship to do so much as scramble an egg. As he sifted through cabinets for a pan and fumbled for the knob on the stove, Jay received a plethora of real-time reminders that he was no Gordon Ramsey. Still, the stick of butter he grabbed from the fridge and the cold bowl, just waiting for their turn to forward the dish’s progress, had him grinning with anticipation.

  Being an adult was something Jay didn’t realize he was going to have to start getting used to—at least not so soon. The responsibilities had all but taken him by surprise. Like the chilly surface of the bowl atop the counter to the fresh yolk that dripped out of the cracked egg shell in his hands in slimy rivulets, Jay was ambushed by responsibilities. But there were escapes to the constant stress, supposedly, and he examined each one like a dozen of eggs as the new year had approached.

  He carefully lifted each smooth, ovular trinket from the carton and his eyes passed over their facades like spying drones. He tried fitness, even bought a gym membership, but it didn’t stick, not like the yolk to the fork when he began to whisk. He took up piano, and purchased a trainer’s keyboard to get things rolling, but it couldn’t roll like the egg he’d set down for just a second that had now found its way to the surface of the tiled floor.

  But, it wasn’t the end for him and his search. With the new year, the shiny, full-of-possibility twenty-twentyone, he knew he wanted to dedicate each day to some practice. He needed a ritual that would help him feel fulfilled as the days passed, no matter what happened throughout.

  As Jay poured his whisked masterpiece into the pan, he carried the bowl with the elegance of a professional. Or at least that was what he felt, and when the liquid mixture met the steaming surface of the pan and the already melted butter, it sizzled, and Jay broke out into a dance. He grabbed a spatula in a panicked fashion after realizing he would need one, and he began to whisk it around the pan. He felt like the captain of a notorious ship and an adventurous pirate crew. They would hoist sails and conquer a sea of yellow yolk. Captain Jay his hearty crew would call him, and he would be perched atop the ship’s helm, his chest puffed and hair fluttering with the wind.

  The eggs solidified, and Jay thought to deposit them atop a paper plate only after they began to boast a shade of brown. Plop they went as they met the dish, and viola: breakfast was served. Jay ambled along to the kitchen table, his prize in his hands. He stored his eggs safely on the table, his eyes never once parting from them. scrambling to sit down, Jay stubbed his toe with a cry so manly it surprised him. A few minutes later, he released his foot from his hands and began to ea—wait, the fork. A few moments later, he began to eat for the second time, and his ritual was soon completed.

  When the clock struck twelve on New Year’s Eve, after extensive research, Jay had decided. If he couldn’t become a world renowned body builder or a beloved pianist, he would be sure of one thing, if only one, about the new year to come. For every day he could, Jay would wake up, pop out his trusty pan, and make himself some eggs.

  He smiled and heaved a sigh. He let the thought of quarantine, the election, and all other anxieties plaguing him melt away as he chewed. A smile made its way across his face, and his eyes found a comfy place to rest on the painting hanging across the wall. He was proud of what he had made, and his stomach was grateful.

  After a quick texting marathon to let all his friends know how culinary he was becoming, Jay stood and carried his plate to the sink. He set it down and began to wash it, and the feeling of the water running through his fingers was just the thing to feel as his troubles were cleansed away.

  “Easy.” Jay nodded triumphantly after drying and stashing his plate in the cabinet he’d retrieved it from. He decided just one thing was missing from his accomplishment, and so he carried himself outside, bunny slippers on foot. He let the back door slide closed behind him and he smiled out at a humble-sized back patio.

  Adulthood was chaotic at times, but Jay found peace in the little things. Going big, he figured, wasn’t the thing for him. Like the small lawn chair he set himself up in, or the thin rays of sunlight that fell over him and covered him in mothernature’s warm embrace, he was a simple man winning simple victories.

  It was at this moment that he felt a slight pinch at his feet, almost soft enough to call a tap. He shifted to a seated position amd peered down at his feet. Pecking at them was his prized chicken, Priscila. She waddled up to him and flaunted her stunning gray feathers.

  “Hello, my love.” He smiled, and the chicken replied by exploring even closer to him. Suddenly, the bird decided to crouch on the seat of the chair, and she cawed loudly and viciously. In a moment the cacophony was over, and the chicken popped up and took off for the far reaches of the yard. In her place, as smooth as a marble or a baby’s bottom, rolling around like a stone, lay a warm, yellow egg.

  “There’s lunch.” Jay frowned, and his gaze turned to the crazed chicken that was now sending its razor sharp talons through his flower bed. He had gone two months strong with his egg-cooking agenda thus far, but he was starting to think the chicken part of the package was a bit much.