Serves Two

Luna
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INGREDIENTS:

1 telephone blaring at seven a.m. on a Sunday.

1 hand, yours, groping blindly to silence the ring.

1 White House Deputy Communications Director crashing to the floor.

3 attempts to speak into the right end of the receiver.

1 bleary greeting from the White House Deputy Chief of Staff.

1 overwhelming wave of nausea at the idea of having to go to work.

1 overwhelming wave of relief at the reassurance you can stay home.

2 voices simultaneously suggesting breakfast.

1 agreement to meet at your place in an hour.

1 suspicion that you haven't bought groceries since the State of the Union.

1 slow, yawning trudge into the kitchen.

1 fresh bruise on your hip.

3 sexual encounters between close friends, never planned, never discussed, and
not to be repeated.

1 fruitless search for eggs, fresh bread, or anything else resembling breakfast food.

1 decision to settle for putting the coffee on.

1 long shower, during which it is impossible to prevent yourself from thinking.

1 President.

1 course of relapsing/remitting Multiple Sclerosis.

19 people who knew before you did.

1 pair of jeans and bedraggled Lakers T-shirt, pulled on without much energy or
enthusiasm.

1 cup of coffee, mixed with milk a day past the expiration date, but you think
it smells all right, so it's worth a shot.

1 cup of coffee dumped into the sink.

1 cup of coffee, black.

3 pieces of mail, dropped on your counter when you wandered home from work at
an hour that can only be accurately described as unholy.

1 telephone bill, outrageous.

1 advertising circular addressed to "Occupant," perused to delay opening of the
third item.

1 letter from the woman who broke your family.

1 father who broke your faith.

37 seconds spent convincing yourself not to cry.

142 words of apology, defiance, and guilt, mingled with pleas for
understanding, from a woman you would probably have liked if you met her
under better circumstances.

1 ball of paper, crumpled and tossed into the garbage.

1 depressed and immobilizing silence.

1 knock on the door.

1 friend who has seen you through crisis after crisis, who brought you to the
White House, who is a constant in an inconstant world.

6 eggs, proving that he knows you as well as you know yourself.

1 pan, dusty and rarely used.

5 eggs, broken haphazardly into the pan.

1 egg, accidentally splattered across the corner of the sink.

1 splash of (probably not stale) orange juice, at your insistence, remembering
that your mother used to do that to add flavor, when you were a small boy
and scrambled eggs were all you wanted in the world.

13 grains of pepper, all that is left in your shaker, unfortunately.

8 minutes of light, companionable conversation about sports, consisting
mainly of a spirited debate over whether the American League East could
kick the asses of the AL West, making them cry like baby girls. Your
friend is crazy; the Mets are godawful.

1 hand, yours, unthinkingly placed on the stovetop too near to the burner.

1 yelp of surprise and injury.

1 burst of tears, more painful than the hand as you hold it under cold water.

2 tentative inquiries as to whether you are all right.

1 lie.

1 honest answer, which feels as if it's being torn out of you.

5 eggs, overcooked and inedible.

1/2 of you that craves the fight and delight of a Presidential campaign, the
terror and thrill of doing the impossible.

1/2 of you that has been disappointed by compromising, giving in, bending,
being lied to, and feels suffocated every single day.

1 horrible grinding noise from garbage disposal as the eggs slip down,
obscuring your murmur that you don't think you can trust the great men of
this world anymore.

1 hand against your back, soothing.

1 lump, like a whole egg in the shell, sitting in your throat and crushing your
vocal cords, though words are rushing through your head like a scattering
flock of birds.

1 hand resting on your arm, gentle.

1 assassin's bullet separating your best friend's life from death.

2 hands holding onto your shoulders, safe, trustworthy and hard to resist.

1 fresh bruise on your heart.

3/10 of a second before you lean closer.

1 world, always a heartbeat away from falling to pieces.


DIRECTIONS:

Blend. Simmer. Serve while hot.

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