musings of a lover… of … yes… that, too…

You should see your face, he says. He stands over the stove scrambling eggs and her mind at the same time. She never knows what he’s gonna say that will make her head hurt. This time it’s a simple thing. He say: people don’t like you like you think they do.

What fascinates her is that she never thought people liked her at all.

He says, People just know you’re gullible like any jackleg preacher. He snorts laughter as he lifts the steamy eggs on a plate next to the toast and hands it to her. The butter has congealed on the cold toast. She wants to warm it up or toast another piece. Instead she puts the eggs on it with strawberry jam and folds the bread over. He puts sliced cantaloupe on the table, then a glass of pulp-filled orange juice. He has a system whenever he makes her breakfast and in all the years they’ve sit at this table looking out the back window over the garden, he has never broken the ritual. She knows the hot coffee and a glass of cold water will follow in five minutes. That is the way eleven years of breakfasts that he cooked always proceeded.


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