A few months ago you happily told me, "I'm not going to be making omelettes anymore. From now on, I'm going to be at the sandwich bar!" And as disappointed as I was to lose your unparalleled ovum-frying talents (honestly, like none I’ve ever seen; you never even leave behind any of that disgusting egg juice that so many overlook), I was happy for you.
Yet the next day you were back at the omelette station where you've remained ever since. Today when I ordered my morning protein as part of this balanced breakfast, you gave a big sigh and then splashed my egg whites into the pan with a little more force than usual. My superior skills of deductive reasoning tell me that something went awry on the way to the lunch meat counter.
What happened, Ismael? You can talk to me.
PS: Between us, Bread Market Café was never made for one as beautiful as you.