Will She Eat Him For Breakfast?
Metallic strains of “Here Comes the Sun” blast out of the alarm clock at 6:30am, jolting the lone sleeper conscious. Barely. Conscious. She stumbles to the bathroom and almost screams at her reflection in the mirror.
Sleeping alone does not suit me.
She staggers to the kitchen. Flips on the light.
When she turns to plug in the coffee maker, a river of Spanish almost sends her into shock.
Buenos dias, Andra. Puedo ayudar con el café?
No. NO. We do not have to go to a cafe for breakfast. I can make it. I. MAKE. IT. Si?
Siiiiiiiiiiisiiiiiiiiiisiiiiiiiii. Sólo una taza de café para mí.
The Spanish-speaking apparition goes to her room and shuts the door.
So, why did she want to go to a cafe alone? What’s WRONG with me?
She starts the coffeemaker and rummages through the cabinets.
How in the heck does he use this oat bran stuff to make waffles? It looks like sawdust to me.
Is water is required to cook oatmeal? Or, is it milk?
Do I put the eggs in the water before it boils? Or after?
Is it rude to serve a whole plate of bacon to a guest? Will she think that’s weird?…..Oh. Wait. How does he make the bacon again?
I am most definitely not awake enough to handle this level of gastronomic pressure.
She pours a cup of coffee and slinks to the sanctuary of the bathroom. Talks to her reflection in the mirror.
Well, at least I know how to paint my eyes with my Naked Palette.
When she does not start at the wrong end. With the dark colors first. Then, she looks like a baggy-eyed raccoon. She quits with one eye, throws her ratty hair in a clip and returns to the kitchen.
Un buen café.
The Spanish-speaker again. Sipping a cup of coffee.
Yes. I am lost without MTM. Let’s have breakfast at a cafe.
Come home soon, Sweetheart.
How do you handle it when your special someone is missing from your house?