breakfast

A friend says, “There is no
clarity, that’s not what it’s about,” and
he listens, because she seems to know that of which she
speaks, or at least talks a good phrase. “It’s about
understanding the complexity, or at least working
through
it,” she says, continuing, as his brain struggles to keep
from feeling concussed. “Besides, who really wants
clarity? Simpletons? Prosecutors? Divorcees?” she asks and he nods,
perfunctorily, while he checks to make sure
he’s taken his
morning
anti-depressant. “Life would be boring with
clarity,” she says, nodding, as if to try
to convince him, and asks, “Are you ready
to order?”
He says he needs a few more minutes,
and she harrumphs and lights a cigarette and
orders scrambled eggs, whites only, no butter
and
grits. “Just keep it simple,” she says. “It’s
best that way. Everything is best that
way.” And he orders
a bagel. Plain.