I woke up before Dorita. She was on her stomach, sleeping softly. I crept out of bed. I stood and gazed at her. I was not worthy. That such a creature would share my bed. Might share my life. Damn. I apologized to God for all my whining. I was a lucky man. Even if it ended here, I was a lucky man.
I rustled up some eggs and Emmental. I scoured the nether regions of the fridge for half an onion, the odd dried-out mushroom. I pled guilty to bad housekeeping. I turned the detritus into a passable omelet.
I brewed a pot of Jamaican Blue. I went upstairs. Kelly was still asleep. I let her snooze. She deserved it.
Dorita had awoken on her own. She was in the shower. I snuck in. She had her back to me. I kissed the nape of her neck. She leaned back into me. My shirt got wet. I didn’t mind.
Come downstairs, I said. I’ve thrown a little breakfast together.
Mmmm, she said. You sure you don’t want to join me for a while first?
Darn it, I said. Had I only known. But the omelet’s getting cold.
She turned around to face me. A full frontal excess of perfection. My knees went weak.
Have it your way, she said. I’ll keep this for myself.
You cruel, wanton witch, I said. You dare to make me choose between warm omelet and you?
I do. And you can brave the consequences of your choice.
I’m all for free will, I said. But sometimes you just can’t stand on principle.
I threw off my clothes. I eased into the shower stall. I slithered up.
Other stuff transpired. Suffice it to say that by the time we reached the kitchen the omelets had congealed. We popped them in the microwave. They were chewy but retained a hint of flavor. We left some for Kelly, still slumbering innocently in her room. Unaware of the Wagnerian events unfolding in her home.