This would have been a perfect January morning, in any other January but this one, with the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window and falling on her hands at work under the tap. Every day they looked more and more like her grandmother’s hands, she mused—when had that change started to come? So much change. Now these hands worked swiftly with the knife, expertly slicing through succulent pepper, discarding seeds, pushing aside the fragrant green dice on the block to make room for the onion. Click-click-click went the burner, then whoosh! went the blue gas flame. A moment later, pepper and onion made a satisfying sizzle in the pan. The vibrant green and white looked so pretty comingling there she thought, while she whisked egg yolk furiously and waited for the vegetables to sear. Now the egg danced around them, finding its way into every nook and cranny before it settled and began to firm. She held the minuscule bits of Asiago aloft over the cooktop and released them slowly into the pan, like a little spring blizzard, she imagined as she watched them melt over a mountainous landscape in miniature. Carefully folding the egg, now an omelette cooked to perfection, she gently guided it into place over the crisp greens on toast. She lifted the small porcelain plate and held it against the sunlight, the better to examine her creation and the steam rising from it in crazy swirls. Then she tossed it into the trash, plopping the plate into the sink. It hit the stainless steel in a funny way and she heard it clatter to a rest as she walked away to greet another worrisome day, numb to the hunger in her belly.