The waitress came back with two heavy porcelain plates.

She put them down with a loud clatter.

“You always liked your eggs burnt around the edges,” Glenn said.

“I remembered.”

I picked up my fork and broke the yolk.

We ate without talking for four minutes, listening to the clink of silverware.

It was the first quiet meal the two of us had shared in ten years.

He paid the bill with a crisp twenty-dollar bill and got up, straightening his jacket.