Fried Eggs at Midnight

I was in bed. Curtains drawn. The fan made a soft nuzzling sound, circulating the warm air in my room. I had aired my pillows the day before, after suspecting my wheezing and sneezing over the weekend were due to dust mites inhabiting my cotton filled cushions. My eyes were still red and watery, itching from the suspected allergies. I disposed of my disposable contact lenses just hours before. Watched the tiny transparent blue tinted plates wash down the drain as I brushed my teeth.

My room is kept dim with only a table lamp to my left. I like it this way. But I worry that I might someday go blind from reading in shadows. My eyes are stinging from fatigue, but I know I won't be falling asleep when the light is out. So I continued with the story, anticipating the taming of Richard Parker in the setting of the grand Pacific Ocean.

I took deep breaths as I read. One of two nostrils was completely senseless. Blocked. The inner walls flared up. No air particles getting through. Then, I thought I smelled a familiar scent with the other working nostril. Something savoury, with a sweet undertone. Whiffs of deliciousness. I looked at my watch. Midnight. One working nostril can play tricks on you at this hour. I took deeper, longer breaths just to be sure. Yes. I think I'm not imagining it. I laid my book down and sat up. Sniff. Sniff. Sniiiiff. Fried eggs. Something more. Sniff. Sniff. Onion omelette! With a pinch of sugar to help caramelised the onions. I leaned back into my pillows. Back into the Pacific Ocean with a young Tamil boy and a majestic Bengal tiger. Satisfied that I might fall asleep later dreaming of sweet onions and sunny-runny eggs. Not questioning the source of such delicious comforting scent.

I was sure I didn't imagine it.