There is still some debate, you know, over who is to blame for the blinds not fitting exactly perfectly in the bedroom window. The company said I measured wrong. I said that they cut it wrong.
Most of the time I don’t care.
But right now, with this golden stream of light sneaking around the side of the blind and half-illuminating you, I consider it the happiest of little accidents.
Despite the weather outside, the bedroom is cozywarm. Some of it due, undoubtedly, to residual heat from last night.
You stir a little.
I stay perfectly still.
You are partially covered by a tangled sheet.
It takes every bit of willpower I have to resist running my hand down the indentation on your side and then up over your hip.
Your hair is messy.
The kind of messy where, if you were awake, you’d tell me “Don’t look at me.” Then I’d refuse to stop.
You’d bury your nose in my chest.
I’d say, “You look pretty.”
You’d say, “Oh. I know.”
The pillow has formed creases on your face. And, for just a moment, I am a little mad at the pillow for daring to do such a thing.
I can barely see the tiny scar on your forehead. (It doesn’t count as an imperfection!) The one you got when you were four and fell off the kitchen counter while trying to get a Poptart for your doll Mrs. Futzbunny.
I always mean to ask you who she was married to.
And what nationality Futzbunny is.
I suspect Danish. (Near the border.)
I look at the clock.
I gently push away what little of the sheets are actually covering me.
Some remain tangled around my foot.
I grab them with my toes and lightly drag them away and–
I quickly, but quietly, jump up from the bed.
I hop on one foot.
I yell, “MOTHHER FUUUUUUUUUUUU– OOT CRAMP!”
In my head.
I grab my t-shirt off the chair and hop out of the room.
I put my foot on the cold hardwood floor of the hallway and the pain subsides.
I pull my t-shirt over my head — backwards at first — and limp down the stairs.
I stand in the kitchen.
I look around like a ruler overseeing his empire.
I whisper, “Omelet,” and rub my hands together.
I grab a frying pan.
I grab a bowl.
I realize that I always, always listen to music when cooking. Not today though.
A song starts playing in my head.
I grab the eggs from the fridge.
I realize it’s a Creed song.
I stop grabbing ingredients.
I remember the first night we met, when I joked that “I spent a year in a Creed cover band… then I realized it was actually Creed!”
You called me a dork.
I grab some peppers and onions.
Some more cheese.
I know you.
I replace the Creed in my head with some Pearl Jam.
“State of Love and Trust.”
Their best song.
You told me once that “Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town” is actually a better song.
I said, “Lady…”
You interrupted with, “Do you realize how old I was when Pearl Jam was big?”
I changed the subject to the weather.
I reach for a pepper shaker and it slightly eludes my grasp and falls off the shelf.
I reach again and tip it back up in the air with my fingers.
With my third reach, I catch it clean.
“Like a cat,” I whisper to the empty kitchen.
The omelet looks done.
I grab a tray.
I pour the juice.
I pull a flower out of the bouquet you received recently.
I arrange everything.
I carry it up the stairs.
I sneak into the bedroom.
You’re still sleeping.
I sit the tray on your beside table.
I gently “Baby…” you awake.
Your eye lids flutter against the mean old daylight.
Your eyes open wide. “Am I late?”
“No. You’re fine.”
“Mmmm. Don’t look at me.”
“OK…” I reply.
While staring and smiling.
You dope-ily point at my messy hair and laugh a little.
I kiss your forehead.
I pick up the tray.
You awwwww as you sit up.
I place it on your lap.
I kiss your forehead.
You smile, still groggily.
I know this is a big day for you
I really hope you enjoy the omelet.