“I’d like two six-minute hard-boiled eggs,” I said, enunciating each word carefully. The young man who had assisted me with the very same order the day before nodded, then darted off to the hotel kitchen.

Weaving in and out of the crowded breakfast area, I took my seat across from Walt. I buttered my toast, refilled my ridiculously small coffee cup at the Krupp dispenser, then looked up to find a waitress with a plate of scrambled eggs. “He says these are yours,” she said with a thick, Spanish-y accent, placing them before me.

I considered the eggs. I like scrambled eggs but had repeated my request for hard-boiled eggs—rock hard, not runny—out of habit more than anything else. Clearly the young man had made a mistake. I’d get confused speaking multiple languages all at once, which is what one has to do when working at a tourist hotel in Mallorca. The whole of Europe empties onto their beaches several times a year, and there’s just no way anyone’s going to bone up on Catalan.

Then, of course, I didn’t want to turn the eggs away, thereby drawing attention to the young man’s error. It’s just easier to accept what’s handed to you than to make a gratuitous fuss. I mean, what’s the big deal anyway?

Walt lifted an eyebrow.

“I actually wanted scrambled eggs,” I said in my defense. “I was totally on the fence this morning.”

He shook his head. He doesn’t have to speak for me to know precisely what he’s thinking. Once again, Ann is playing the nice girl. Will she ever learn?

No sooner than I’d set upon the eggs before me, the young man who’d taken my order breezed into the room with two beautifully presented hard-boiled eggs in matching eggcups. He set them before a German woman. “Your six-minute eggs,” he said proudly.

“I ordered five-minute eggs,” she said. She wasn’t having any of his half-assed bullshit. (There’s a reason Germans have a reputation for order and precision. They say five-minute eggs; they mean five-minute eggs.)

The waitress who had delivered my scrambled eggs swept in and set a different pair of eggs before the irritated German. They all conferred. The problem appeared to be solved.

Except, to whom did the six-minute eggs belong?

The young man wasn’t about to let it go. He stood in the middle of the room and announced, loud enough for everyone within a ten-mile radius to hear, “Who ordered six-minute eggs?”

I stared straight ahead so no one would notice me because if you don’t look at them, they can’t see you. Hunching over, I did my best to slow my breathing. Don’t look at me, I thought. Don’t remember me. I was grateful to be dressed in unobtrusive black.

Walt gave me a look that said, “See what you’ve gone and done by being such a weenie?”

The whole room seemed to chime in. “Did you order the eggs?” they asked each other.

“No, did you?”

The waiter scratched his head. “I know someone ordered these eggs.”

“Who would order eggs and then leave?” an English man with no legs said. “What kind of savage does that?” He wore a T-shirt that said Calvin Klein Jeans, which I found ironic.

Outside, two gorgeous twenty-something’s undressed right down to their G-strings. They lifted their arms up to greet the sea. Four of the most beautiful breasts the world had to offer were on display, but did anyone in that restaurant turn their head to look?

“I bet you they belong to Helga,” said another German woman with the sunburn from hell. “Check with her outside.”

Her husband, a worn out middle-aged lap dog with every reason in the world to focus on young, beautiful flesh, pounded his righteous fist on the table instead. “That’s just terrible!”

The young man scurried through the double glass doors.

Two minutes later he returned. “No, they’re not hers. I asked everyone outside and no one will claim them.” He stood on his tip toes, searched the room again for a sign from God, some kind of phosphorescent arrow pointing down upon the offender’s head.

When my daughter first went off to college, a family friend had called her on the sly and begged her to donate her eggs. This friend had tried everything to get pregnant, but her last course of action was to track down some high-quality eggs and have her husband fertilize them. She was willing to pay for my daughter’s DNA, and I’m talking the big bucks.

The mysterious six-minute hard-boiled eggs, however, appeared to be far more valuable because the young man at the center of the room inexplicably refused to wash his hands of them. He was a veritable terrier with a bone.

I stared straight ahead at the opposite wall and pretended I was deaf. Stenciled in big black letters against the white was the sentence, “Take Your Pleasure Seriously.”

I had no doubt the German couple by the warm milk carafe had overheard my order. I’d spoken slowly and clearly. Plus I’ve never met a German without a perfect command of the English language. All of their pop tunes are in English. They haven’t released a hit in their own language since the days of Wagner. It was only a matter of time before they turned their heads, pointed an accusing finger, and outed me for the reprehensible troublemaker I am.

Walt folded his napkin into a nice, neat square and placed it on the table. He set his knife and fork just so by his plate. He surveyed the shit show, which was taking on the kinetic energy of a million falling dominoes. He smiled, one of those insufferable, know-it-all smiles.

He would say it, but he’d make me wait for it.

He sat back in all his supercilious glory. “Maybe next time, you’ll insist on what you want and cut the people-pleasing.”