and sadness began

My dear, you say I’m too serious and that I’m not good at laughing with you. I wished I could take things more lightly, but I can’t. I’ve been this way since I was very little. I can’t pinpoint exactly when my sadness began. But I do remember one time when I was six or seven, I was at a fancy hotel restaurant lining up for omelettes. I watched the man make omelettes with intense curiosity. First he put oil on the pan, then vegetables, then he poured egg over it and let it sizzled. At the end, he tossed the egg in the air, flipping it, once, twice, and each time it landed on the pan flawlessly, a perfect pocket, served on a plate. He did the exact same steps when making my omelette. He flipped the egg, once, twice, but this time, the omelette broke on one end. Diced tomatoes and green peppers fell out. He handed me the plate but took it back. “I’ll make you a better one,” he said. I was confused. A broken omelette must have tasted the same as an unbroken omelette, I thought. But he made another one anyway. The next omelette he made was perfect like the ones that came before the broken one. “Here’s a better one,” he said, and gave me the plate. I took it but I couldn’t walk away. I just stood there and watched him cook. I wanted to see what he did differently that made the perfect omelettes, or what he failed to do when he made the broken one. I kept watching but I couldn’t see any difference. There was no difference in the way he made each omelette. No difference at all. What made the broken one? I had no idea. And soon I wasn’t hungry anymore.