Waking up first, I savored the minutes alone. Slanted morning light covered the kitchen table and I chose the chair that would let the sun warm my back. I made myself a simple breakfast of 12-grain toast with butter and honey and a strong cup of espresso. I alternated bite and sip, bite and sip, letting the honey coat my tongue and the deep, earthy espresso wash it away. Each triangle of toast was gone in four bites and I greedily considered toasting the last two sliced and telling him we were out of bread. Just then, I heard the rush of the pipes as the shower kicked on across the house so I abandoned my plan. The morning light had risen to warm my head so I changed seats and let the cat have my spot. She blinked and sniffed the pale yellow and let it warm her blue-black fur, dust particles floating near her whiskers. She meditated before settling down to nap.
The click of the gas stove nudged me back into the moment and I saw him standing at the stove testing the level of the tea kettle. His hair was towel-dried, graying curls at his neck, emitting its salty lavender scent. Like the cat, I turned my head toward him and sniffed the air, then, slow blink, slow blink. His smile turned into a yawn and he covered it with the back of his hand.
“What did you have? Toast?” he asked, approaching the table and looking down at my masterpiece of crumbs on my favorite plate: red apples with brown birds.
“With honey.” I replied, raising the bear from the table, supplied as evidence.
“Ah. Any more of that bread?” I stood and extended my arms and pulled him towards me.
“Two slices, just for you.” I said breathing against his warm, showered shoulder. He returned my embrace and pressed his lips to my temple, my hair still wild from bed, unwashed.
“Lovely.” he said.