Rivals For Breakfast

40| Autumn

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Cole's P.O.V

Autumn brings forward a cold front. A spectrum of crisp, salmon and flaxen painted leaves replace the vibrant, lush viridescent ones we were once used to. We say goodbye to the warmth of six months, knowing and accepting the grueling winds that are to come. It's a period of change, not just for the weather, but for me.

There's something to be said about expectation, and comfort. I expect to wake up tangled in her arms every morning, warm and grounded by the alluring fragrance of her skin like velvet. Our lives have grown into a synchronous routine. I know where to find her whenever those spells of cold longing hit me, and all I want is to be wrapped in her warmth again. There's a certain comfort in that surety that I cherish, but it's those unexpected, glimmerings of passion, like when her lips touch mine and like budding fireflies my heart is thrown in a whirlwind, and I forget about the cold crispy leaves that are growing darker all around us. Im losing my mind, she's losing hers too, we make each other sicker, shoving each other deeper and deeper into the box of delirium, but there's no turning back, and who would want to anyways when the lights we switch on inside each other are more overwhelming and ever encompassing than any flu. Or when she throws her arms around me just because she can, and I realize that she trusts me. My sensations brim with hers, I no longer want to hurt her, and I'm sorry I ever did.

"I knew you should've worn your jacket" she says softly, breaking me out of my daydream.

"I'm fine" I argue, followed by a strained sniffle that destroys my credibility altogether. "I don't get sick" I protest, my voice muffled by clogged sinuses. But it's the truth. It's been years since I've suffered even the slightest illness. I suppose it's my stubbornness, so rugged that even the common cold wouldn't dare challenge it. Or maybe it has to do with whatever entity sits in a citadel of his own, overlooking and governing our fortunes. Perhaps this unseen decider of fates took pity on me knowing my state, knowing how poorly I'd fare up against even the most feeble virus.

She climbs over me, pressing the back of her hand over my forehead followed by her palm. "I'll make you some soup" she pouts, regarding me sweetly.

She disappears through the bedroom door and I roll over, pressing my face against the cold sheets of the bed. Not once in my life have I ever harbored the privilege of someone taking care of me. The sensation sits unnaturally in my subconscious. If it weren't for my pounding headache, and labored breathing I would be pushing myself out of bed, rushing back to business.

I should never rely on anyone, I'm not allowed to be weak, this is what life has taught me. Growing up a troubled, unwanted boy, foster care fostered nothing in me except my stubbornness, and how to take a hit. It never prepared me for letting go of my own ego or relying on someone else.

Between all of the kids I was forced to butt heads with, under one dingy, low-income roof, and the money-hungry foster mother who routinely denied us food for days, beat us senseless from the fragile age of four, and often disappeared for weeks on end leaving us to fend for ourselves with her various sketchy male partners, there was no one to turn to except myself. It's a wonder the type of people we unwanted kids are thrown at. The majority of foster parents only commit to the deed for the sake of that extra tax revenue at the end of the year. At least that was the case with Debbie, that's what she called herself, although to this day I'm uncertain it's truly her name. She was an inexcusable woman. Her voice was a loud, raspy drone, hoarse from years of smoking. It would echo through the house all night, screaming at us for all the things wrong in her life. She wore nothing but a dirtied old t-shirt, and a pair of faded Levi jeans she was proud to own, though they barely made it above her bulging beer belly.