Meanwhile, Tim and I continued to work together, keeping our interactions professional and brief, his grin still locked into a grimace, my own head held so high I thought it might fall off my neck. We had a quick exchange of emails, re: returning the stuff I'd left at his apartment; beyond that, there was no discussion of the year-long love we'd let die. He saw me, on more than one occasion, pulling Edgar out of my pocket under the table at a meeting, frowning at his flagging condition; I could tell that Tim was dying to see his progeny. Once, he was unable to stop himself from giving me the raised eyebrows look, a sharp nod with his chin — See, it wasn't such a bad gift, after all.

No, it was a wonderful gift. It's rare that someone hands you an explicit metaphor for the end of your relationship, but that's exactly what Tim had done. I knew I was becoming perverse, showering attention on a lifeless phantasm that was doomed to fail, desperate to prove my superiority as a lover; I knew that Edgar represented the man who'd borne him to me. I didn't care. I would love him until death.

It had been almost three weeks since the breakup, and the shock of the abrupt fracture had worn off; the disappointment, loneliness, and humiliation started to hit me. Our co-workers were acknowledging the new state of affairs, offering me their unwanted condolences — or were they snickers? I couldn't tell anymore. The season changed hard over the course of a week — it wasn't late summer anymore, it was a cold, grey fall. I came down with a miserable flu.

I called in sick to work and took to my bed, Edgar on the night table next to my tissues and NyQuil. I watched terrible TV, interrupted every few minutes by Edgar's beeps — feed me, clean me, cheer me up. I could barely feed and clean myself, couldn't drift off into a nap without being awakened by the incessant beeping. Goddamn it, what is it now?

I could still hear his faint beeping as I padded back to bed, the beeps speeding up, getting louder and more agonized.

We made it through the day, but barely; the night was worse. The next morning, Edgar woke from his "sleep," and started chirping right away. I didn't even want to lift my head from the pillow, aching and fevered as it was. I knew then that only one of us would survive the day.

I forced myself out of bed for juice and soup, taking Edgar into the kitchen, where I dropped him into a drawer. I could still hear his faint beeping as I padded back to bed, the beeps speeding up, getting louder and more agonized. Where are you? I need you! Don't let me die! You once said you loved me. Keep me alive!

I tossed and sweated in my sickbed, tormented by beeps and dreams of beeps. I napped fitfully, woke in a panic; I wanted to rush into the kitchen and rescue Edgar, but I wouldn't. I couldn't. There was no way I could continue to keep Edgar alive; his need was too great, his expiration pre-destined. I could no longer stay his fate, or mine — it was time to say goodbye. I took a long draught of NyQuil straight from the bottle, and dropped off into a thick, dreamless sleep.

In the morning, I checked the drawer. The pixels that had formed Edgar's wistful eyes now formed two Xs. His cheery chirp would be heard no more, his feet would ne'er shuffle. Edgar was dead.

I kept the lifeless egg in the catch-all drawer by the stove, and forgot it was there, until almost two years later, when I was packing to move — I'd rented an apartment in Manhattan, to be closer to my new boyfriend, a man I'd met at work. I came across the egg and caressed it briefly, remembering how I'd loved it, and how it had loved me in return. But it had never been real; neither the toy nor Tim. It was just me pressing buttons.

I let the egg slide from my hand into the trash, and went into the bedroom to join my new love.  n°

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
	Janice Erlbaum is the author of Girlbomb: A Halfway Homeless Memoir, and Have You Found Her: A Memoir, which was released in February by Villard. She was a contributor to Bust magazine from 1994 through 2007. She lives in her native New York City with her domestic partner, Bill Scurry, and their three cats.