May tomorrow be a perfect day

Bea's in the kitchen rinsing plates, humming the magpie song. Sylvia will not let him down from the table until he eats his egg white.

But Donny and Marie is on.

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Sylvia widens her eyes, taps her cheek with her index finger.

Egg white makes me sneeze.

No it doesn't, she says.

It's disgusting. It's like, it's like. He tries to think of the most disgusting thing. Sick and snot. He looks down at his yolky crusts, stringy white in its little metal cup. Sylvia places her hands on the table and stands up.

You know what, Federico, do what you want.

She leaves the room. The air is brighter without her. Sylvia's like a background sound he wishes would turn off, like the rugby game he heard while he dozed on the couch next to Bea. She wriggled and whooped beside him. He climbs down from the table and switches the TV on. Forgets egg white and Sylvia, disappears into the sweet heart of Marie Osmond.