Mornings at Twenty-Two by Beth Beales
- Beth Beales
- Apr 2
- 3 min read
Yolks of gold turn firmer and firmer as I watch them swirl and set in the frying pan. Translucent boundaries turn to a stark white, edges crispening with a bubble and crunch. With a spatula I separate the eggs and slide them onto slices of buttered toast. Two eggs on two slices. Pinch of salt, grind of pepper. After bite one I start getting dressed. Freezing it’s fucking freezing so tights under my jeans and socks layered on top. Bra, t-shirt, a bigger t-shirt, and jumper. Cable knit, cream, a bit too thick, slightly drowning, but cosy all the same. Second bite.
Brown frizzy hair with a couple of ringlets gets scrunched and clawed into a low bun. Some strands fall at the front, and I fluff them about for several minutes to make it look effortless. I start layering some creams onto my face. One for my eyes, one for everywhere, one for less wrinkles. I’m not sure I don’t have any wrinkles because it works, or because I’m twenty-two.
Third bite. I start washing up the pan from earlier, there’s just enough fairy liquid left. Did I put deodorant on? Okay back to the bedroom, deodorant on and some perfume too. Neck, wrists and a spritz around my hair. I stare at myself in the mirror and my eyes glaze almost to the point of shutting. No, wake up wake up, go and make coffee. I flick the kettle on, never checking whether it’s full or not, and start some makeup while I wait but I still look half asleep. As I blink on mascara, which is running out, I wonder how much it is at the moment, flicking through my phone I find it on sale at Boots. I’ll pick one up later if I remember. I look in the mirror again. My face looks less tired, but my eyes still want to droop, droop and dro…coffee! Okay back to the kitchen and again I flick the kettle on.
Fourth bite. Coffee made, black no sugar as always. I look at the clock. Fifteen minutes. Deep breath.
Fifth and sixth bite. I’m back in my room, backpack growing with essentials, plus the fantasy novel I’m halfway through but isn’t getting any better. I’ll give it a few more chapters. Seventh, eighth, ninth bite. Bag packed; coffee ready to go. Hair, makeup…what am I missing…I’m dressed, I need to leave. I slide my boots onto my feet and start lacing them up. TEETH, I need to brush my teeth. Okay one last bite then…shit! Yolk dribbles down the cream jumper and onto the floor. Shit. I wrestle with a piece of kitchen roll, but it only smears that golden ooze right into the fibres of wool over my stomach. Checking the clock, I’m three minutes late. How does fifteen minutes of nearly there turn to three minutes past nowhere near? Jumper off, kitchen roll in bin, fresh jumper off the clothes airer whipped on, burgundy this time and tighter too, the cuffs still a bit damp. The layers upon layers start to become suffocating. Teeth briskly brushed, backpack on, strands of hair re-fluffed and door slammed behind me. Coffee, once again, forgotten.
About the author: Beth Beales (@beth.beales). I’m a 23 year old writer from the South West, focusing on contemporary fiction. I love writing in cafes and libraries, anywhere that gets me out of the house and into a story. My favourite thing to do is strengthen my characters as much as possible, they all have far more interesting lives and personalities than me! I love reading any kind of love story both tragic and happily ever after and recently have picked up a lot of fantasy books. On the weekends you’ll find me knitting, charity shopping and going on muddy walks with friends or completely over-caffeinated watching a film with my cat.
