The Last Morning

Originally sent as part of Substack subscriber End of Summer email on August 31, 2025.

The bacon strip rolled over. The expiration date on the carton read today.

"We need to talk," said the egg.

Bacon groaned. "Aw, c'mon. Not today."

"Especially today. Look at yourself. Those brown spots aren't seasoning."

Bacon glanced down. The egg was right. "So what? We're still good for another few hours."

"Are we? What if they throw us out? What if this is it?"

"Then we go out together. Same as always."

The egg wobbled. "But what if they don't choose us? What if they see we're past our prime and grab the yogurt instead?"

Bacon's swagger faltered. "They wouldn't. We're bacon and eggs. We're breakfast."

"We're expired breakfast."

The kitchen door creaked. Footsteps approached.

"I don't want to die in a trash can," the egg whispered.

"Hey." Bacon's voice was rough. "You know what I learned? It's not how long you last. It's what you do with the time you got."

The refrigerator door opened. A hand reached in.

Paused.

Picked up the yogurt container instead.

The egg started to crack, not physically, emotionally. "We're done. We're really done."

The hand hesitated. Put the yogurt back. Reached for them.

"Not yet we're not," Bacon whispered.

The pan heated up. One last time.

"Together?"

"Always."

They sizzled into immortality.

END.