Egg Timer and Infinite Shelf

Six seventeen in the morning. The alarm hadn't gone off yet, but I was awake. Outside the window, the sky was a thin, washed-out blue-gray, like something laundered too many times, carrying a hint of hungover fatigue. This city is always like that, waking up reluctantly. It seemed my body housed its own alarm clock, more precise and more stubborn than the mechanical thing on the bedside table.

Got out of bed. Bare feet on the floor, the coolness crept up from the soles, like some uninvited whisper. The kitchen was empty, save for half a glass of whiskey left from last night, the amber liquid frozen in the glass in a silent pose. I wanted to get something to eat. Nothing complicated, just the simplest thing: fry two eggs, have them with toast. This used to be a daily routine as natural as breathing, but now it felt like planning a covert operation.

It had been on the news for days. First, it was "tariff barriers," a term that sounded distant, something confined to economists' reports. Then, "supply chain strain," like an invisible rope slowly tightening around the city's throat. Finally, the anchor on the screen, in a well-trained, calm tone, reported: "Panic buying of eggs observed in some areas. Citizens are urged to consume rationally." Consume rationally? The phrase was like telling a man dying of thirst to "please drink elegantly" – steeped in dark humor.

I pulled on jeans and an old gray hoodie, the hood hanging loosely behind my head. Before leaving, I habitually patted my pockets. Keys, check. Wallet, check. But today, it seemed there was more to confirm than just these items. I needed to confirm if I had enough "luck" or "combat strength" to face that area in the supermarket, the one once piled high with white and brown oval spheres.

The street was quiet, except for the rustling sound of the sanitation worker's broom sweeping the ground, like clearing the stage for the drama about to unfold. A subtle tension filled the air, like the stillness before a storm. A few pedestrians hurried past, their eyes wary, as if everyone carried a secret map related to eggs in their pockets.

The supermarket's automatic doors hissed open, like a sigh. The smell of disinfectant and some indescribable mixture hit me – perhaps the fermented aroma of collective anxiety. Shopping cart wheels rolled across the smooth tiles, echoing emptily. The goods on the shelves looked somewhat sparse, especially in the areas marked "Imported," as if someone had partially erased them.

Pushing a creaking shopping cart, I headed purposefully towards the refrigerated section. From a distance, I saw the area. Not because it was overflowing with eggs, but because of the crowd gathered there, like a herd of antelope gathered around a dried-up waterhole. They craned their necks, eyes filled with longing and unease, whispering to each other, voices low yet carrying an undeniable urgency.

The egg shelf—or rather, what used to be the egg shelf—was now almost completely bare. The shelf itself seemed to feel this unprecedented attention, gleaming ominously under the pale lights. It was long, unusually so, almost stretching beyond sight, like a conveyor belt leading to some kind of void. Amidst this illusion of infinity, a few cartons of eggs were scattered sparsely, like forgotten punctuation marks.

A middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit was carefully placing the last remaining carton of organic eggs into his cart, his movements as gentle as if handling a bomb. His fingers trembled slightly. Beside him, an elderly woman with graying hair asked a nearby employee in an almost pleading tone, "When will the next batch arrive? I just need two, my grandson loves steamed eggs." The employee was a young man with a standardized, weary smile, repeating over and over, "Sorry ma'am, we're not sure either. Please check back tomorrow." His voice was flat, as if reading from a dull instruction manual.

I stood on the edge of the crowd, like an audience member who had stumbled onto a movie set. It all seemed so absurd, yet so real. For a few eggs, the veneer of civilization vanished, as if deep down, we're still those monkeys scrambling for food on the savanna, just now wearing suits and pushing shopping carts. I thought of the pigs Wang Xiaobo wrote about, those maverick pigs. They just wanted to break through the fence and live interestingly. And here we were, constructing new, invisible fences around an oval, fragile, basic unit of protein.

My gaze followed the infinitely stretching shelf. The light dimmed at the far end, as if connecting to another dimension. Could it be that in that distant, unseen corner, eggs were packed like sardines, waiting to be "consumed rationally"? Or was the shelf itself a metaphor, symbolizing our endless desires and the perpetual void of our lack?

A small commotion broke out nearby. A young woman tried to "borrow" a carton of eggs from another man's cart, claiming her child was sick and the doctor recommended extra nutrition. The man clutched his "spoils of war" tightly, like a family heirloom. The argument grew louder, attracting more onlookers. But most just watched, their expressions indifferent, or perhaps, numb.

Suddenly, I lost interest. Like characters in a Murakami novel who, at certain moments, feel a profound weariness with everything happening around them. I didn't need the eggs; I needed the feeling of everyday normalcy, the "I can have fried eggs anytime" feeling. And that feeling, apparently, had disappeared from the shelves long before the eggs themselves.

I turned the shopping cart around and left the area filled with whispers and desperation. Passing the pasta aisle, I saw various shapes of pasta lying quietly, like neatly arranged musical notes. I grabbed a bag of fusilli. Then a can of tomato sauce, a small block of Parmesan cheese. Maybe I could have something different for breakfast today.

At the checkout, the cashier's movements were mechanical and swift. She didn't even look up at me. Outside, the sky had brightened somewhat, but the thin, blue-gray tone remained unchanged. The city continued its slow, reluctant rotation.

Back in the apartment, I turned on the stereo and put on a Bill Evans Trio record. The jazz melody flowed through the room like warm water. I cooked the fusilli, heated the tomato sauce in a pan, sprinkled some dried basil. No eggs, but there were other options. Life, perhaps, is like that infinitely long, yet empty shelf – you never know what you'll face next, nor where the end of scarcity lies.

After finishing the simple pasta, I sat by the window, watching the still-hurrying pedestrians below. The story about the eggs seemed to be playing out in various corners of the city. It was like a giant, silent egg timer, counting down to something unspeakable. Maybe patience, maybe trust, maybe the everyday life we once thought was indestructible. And I was just an observer, sitting by the window, listening to jazz, trying not to think about the end of the infinite shelf. That's all.