Breakfast... — MelinaMou

“Should we make breakfast?” you whisper. Your face is right next to my ear but I can still hear the sleepy scratchiness in your voice. My face is buried in your chest, your arms wrapping me up completely, our legs intertwined, and I am willing myself to stay in that in between stage of awakening where I’m not fully asleep, but am just aware enough to only enjoy being surrounded by you. My heart wants to answer your question with a resounding no. She is prepared to give up all necessities in favor of staying in this exact position. However, my stomach cannot accept this, and after a few seconds I sigh, and answer “Yes, we should”.

Even though I’ve agreed, I’m glad when you don’t immediately move. You linger for a few extra seconds, minutes, making me think you might’ve gone through the same struggle between your heart and stomach. I start to roll away but you keep me held tight and nudge my face upwards for a kiss. Only after a few light kisses, and the tiniest, mischievous lick of my upper lip, do we finally get up.
We are at your apartment today so I sit at the kitchen island watching you prepare the ingredients, awaiting instruction. You have your glasses on, you left your hair messy, and you’re still wearing the shirt you slept in. Once you have all the ingredients out, you start on the coffee. I’m surprised you made it this far without some already.

You then start toasting the bread on the stove and direct me to be in charge of the eggs. I get to work next to you and am secretly pleased every time you ask my opinion on the bread. When your first task is finished, you have a few moments to wait for my ingredients, so you come up behind me, hands everywhere, and say ‘I hope this isn’t too distracting’. A dangerous game when you’ve put me in charge of a protein that can go from delightfully soft to burnt in a matter of seconds.

But then you kiss my neck so I lean back into you a little and tilt my head to the side to give you even more access. I guess I am willing to let those eggs burn.

Unfortunately, you are not, but you laugh a little as you back away and the sound more than makes up for the lack of contact. Once my singular task is done, I sit back down at the island to watch you complete the assembly of our breakfast.

I watch as you cut absurdly thick slices of tomato and although I tease you about throwing the ratio off, I adore the part of you that leans in completely to the things you know you like. Even if it does make this dish much harder to eat.

I watch as you fold your large frame over the cutting board in concentration as you make the most delicate chiffonade of basil. This is my favorite part. I like watching the tiniest movements of your hands and forearms as you chop it into wispy strips. It’s over much too soon.

The last thing you always do during these mornings is take a picture of your creation. You always insist that I’m in at least one of the photos and even though I know I look tired, I allow it. I love being included in such a small way and I like to think about your camera roll filling up with these small moments that you want to remember.

Besides, I’m too happy to say no. I’m happy to have been able to witness you concentrate on basil, burn toast, and relish your beloved tomatoes. So when you ask me to be in the picture, I always say yes, so that I can use that time to savor a few more seconds of being in this happy, slow moment with you, before the momentum of the day takes over.