The ass of the man in front of me is very soft, like the trademark soft-boiled eggs of the establishment. The motion of his keys in his back pocket is a masseur's kneading fist against my inner thigh. Eight slices of toast in front of us, two cups of tea, four runny yolks in the small white plate. Everyone around us is having the same. You don't need a large space to start your day off on the right foot, and with two of everyone sharing seats they've managed cut prices by half. I'm entranced by the idea of pairs here, not in the uncanniness of meeting one's reflection in the street, nor the thrill of MRT-seat combat, but in terms of doubling, abundance. "I'm late to my shift," says the man on top of me, "but these eggs are so damn good. You don't even need soya sauce or pepper." As little globlets of yellow dribble down his lips. I smile. "That's ok." How wonderful, I think. Like sunshine, or a dog park. They should have this anywhere.