Over easy

 I've managed to wrench my knee a bit while climbing the stairs to Demeter's apartment.  (I could take the elevator, but I figure I need the exercise.)  I limp in, while my hamstring grumbles in response to the sting in the inner corner of my kneecap.

There are a couple of rashers of bacon on a plate on the kitchen counter.  I put on the kettle, and manage to walk normally to the living room, where Demeter is writing up her monthly budget, a habit that got her through years of single parenthood.

"I take it you'd like bacon and eggs for lunch?" I inquire.

"Yes, but you only boiled one egg yesterday."

"That's because you asked for a boiled egg."

"I always have two boiled eggs, so I can make a sandwich later."

I've been setting up her meals since her fall in mid-January of 2021, more than eighteen months ago.

"I've never made two boiled eggs for you. You've never asked me to."

Her voice has taken on a gentle, resigned tone.

"Oh well, I guess you didn't hear me."

I match the gentleness (I hope), but skip the resignation.  

"I can't hear something that you didn't say, Mum."

I wince my way back to the kitchen, and fume quietly, but futilely.