“There’s something wrong with my left eye.”
Echo’s mother took her head out of the refrigerator, her arms full with eggs, milk, tomatoes, cheese. “What?”
“There’s something wrong with my left eye,” Echo repeated. “Do you need help?”
Her mother held out the wedge of cheese and a grater. “Could you grate this cheese?”
“Of course.”
There was moment of whisking, chopping and grating.
“Mom, did you hear me?” Echo put a handful of cheese into the eggs.
“Of course I did. Your father is so picky; hates mushroom stems and demands only cherry tomatoes. How was your sleep dear?” Her mom said, putting the mushrooms and tomatoes into the egg mixture. She grabbed a pan from the cupboard and put it on the stove, turning the heat to high.
“You’re not listening to me, Mom.”
Her mother poured the egg mixture into the pan, a loud sizzle filling the pause.
“Ok,” her mom said, sounding annoyed. “What could possibly be wrong with your eye, Echo?”
“Well for one thing, I can see,” Echo replied.
The eggs started to burn.