Of the spirit of cow

I'm frying two eggs for lunch. Sunny-side up, as some people may call it, or just bullseye, though it doesn't look anything similar. And I'm going to eat it with bread, but there's a topping I want to add to it.

But I'm also hesitant. The topping is cheese. Six-hundred-and-twenty-grammes of Colby Australian cheese rest in the second lowest rack in the refrigerator. And I'm afraid to reach for the cheese, and use it. It is like a holy item, that can only be used in the most dire of times.

The packet tells me it's ideal for grilling, but there is no grilling in plain sight. It says it is smooth and creamy, but even as it rests in the palm of my hand, I can feel its tangible texture, cooling my fingers.

I want to use the cheese, but I'm afraid. It's like tapping into a source that I'm unsure of, even if I've seen the outcome a million times before. I tell it like it is, for though I love it, it still frightens me, and I lay awake at night thinking of my next move. Warriors will tell you the same thing, in the calm before the battle, or a husband before his night of consummation. They welcome the danger, the expected thrill, the outcome. It is fear, not of the unknown, because they know what lies ahead, but even then, the consequences are unpredictable.

I must cut the cheese, before it cuts my spirit.