Breakfast

I trace your sleeping form with loving eyes as I wait for the fire to catch. You look so peaceful like that. Vulnerable, even. 

The thought makes me smile. Not usually what one would associate with someone like you. I silently traipse back once the fire is up and running, just for a few moments, to softly cup your cheek and press a featherlight kiss on your forehead. Stroke your hair like you did mine so many times before, only this one as light as the kiss. Don’t want to wake you yet, after all. You deserve that rest, and you likely need it. Anyway, it won’t do to disturb peace like that. I smile as you mutter something unintelligible in your sleep, rolling around in the tiniest fraction of a turn. I almost cuddle up again; but the drag in my stomach is relentless and I fear the rumble alone might wake you if I stay, so I go in search of food, sneaking away on silent feet to raid the larder. I want you to wake up to a warm, sweet smell in your nose, a smile on your face. 

I’m not yet awake enough for anything fancy or a prolonged search, despite the insistent idea flashing through my mind to surprise you with a nice breakfast. We’ve got all the basics stocked, of course. But what to do with them? Bread takes too long, even flatbread. I trail a finger across the spine of one of the cooking books I collected, just to mostly never use them, another strike of my endless curiosity. Let the pages flutter with a thumb. Waffles? 

Mh. Too much work. Too elaborate for my sleepy state and need for something quick without that hurried work that always seems endless in those minutes when you have to quickly grease and spread, grease and spread.

Pancakes, inspiration calls. Essentially waffles, just faster. Could even try to use the same recipe. I set the pan on the stove above the fire, sliding some fat in, and leave it there to heat up while I collect the few ingredients I’ll need. Eggs, flour, add some liquid … it’s really not much. But I end up stumped on the apples my sudden creativity demands, already coming up with excuses for why my pancakes always end up scrambled, turning it into a feature. Curious.

We usually have a whole bunch stored. And yet, they’re not in their usual place–or maybe I’m too sleep-addled to find them. What were you doing while I was gone? I wonder. You’re appetite for apples can’t have been that big you munched down the whole larder’s load, now can it?

Probably got shuffled around and are now lost and hidden behind something else. Because my eyes alight on a new addition, lifting part of the riddle: Peaches and mangos. Someone got a whole armload of them. Aww. Warmth blooms in my chest. Even a live pineapple, wherever you got that from. Must have gone to the market while I was gone. Instead of just lazing around and enjoying your rest as you were supposed to, typical you. 

I consider for just a moment—abandoning the search for apples in a heartbeat. Fair enough, I decide. Those will do just fine. I grab a handful.

And the pineapple, just because.