Curate's Egg by David Whelan

 EGGS in the PAN look almost green in the afternoon light. It was supposed to be morning but the clock didn’t stop. Scrambled by the wedding rings, kissing unused and rusted on the countertop. They stopped wearing them ever since he told her how he's getting the eggs. ‘Can you give me a hand in here, please?’ he says. The kettle needs to be boiled.
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