It's Saturday morning and I find myself in my bed. I whip my head around, expecting to see you there, but the other side of the bed is cold.
I walk into the kitchen, and I see you cooking breakfast.
"Norweigan television show," I mutter.
You turn around and see me standing in the doorframe. I smile softly and you laugh.
I quirk an eyebrow in your direction. "Sleep well?"
"I don't sleep." I give you a pointed look. "Because sleep is the cousin to death."
"Noah Parker, ever the optimist." I walk over to your side near the stove. You tower over me, but we still meet at eye level somehow.
"I made your favourite."
"Flaming hot Cheetos?" You roll your eyes at me and I laugh.
"Favourite breakfast food, you dork." I shrug lightly and take a seat at the breakfast table.
You set a table of pancakes with blueberries in front of me and I smile.
We talk over breakfast and pancakes, and it's infinitely better than talking over stress and Starbucks.
YOU ARE READING
one hundred ways
Romance"Pull over. Let me drive for a while." In which 0.1-2k word fragments show a frazzled golden girl cliche meeting the boy-next-door stereotype. Falling in love ensues.
