sign {h.s.}

capítulo vinte e oito

AFTER OUR INITIAL conversation regarding the nature of our relationship, my comfort level grew astronomically in Harry's apartment.

The morning after the Halloween party, I find myself waking up and helping myself. I don't know when this comfort started, but I am happy with it. There's an ascribed comfort of knowing where everything is and knowing that I have the freedom to use it. Harry has repeatedly said as much to me, assuring me that what's his is mine. Seeing him like this, it's rather shocking that I ever found him to be selfish and standoffish at all. Knowing him more intimately, I can rather honestly assess that he is nothing more than a great big sap.

Waking up in the morning with him still asleep on the bed beside me, I help myself to the medicine cabinet. I grab two pain reliever pills to dull the headache that I can already begin to feel forming to remind me of the repercussions of drinking too much alcohol in one night without the proper precautions primarily taken.

With the pills already working in my system, I make my way to the kitchen, knowing it best to not take pills on an empty stomach. In the same fashion to the medicine, I help myself to his food. Setting out with the intention of making a hearty breakfast for the two of us to share, I begin with cutting up some fruit and throwing it into a bowl as I mix it all together. Most of the food that he has stocked is of the healthier variety. I figure that a fruit salad is precisely one of the best ways to start any morning.

Setting that aside, I continue on to make some eggs and toast. A personal favorite, I continue along in my efforts as I find a pan to set on the stove. Dressed still in his clothing, I sway my hips along to my own rhythm as I cook something up for the two of us to share. No doubt in my mind, I look like some sort of mess. No memory of taking off my makeup from the night before sticks out to me; leaving me with the impression that it is most likely streaking down my face. And, accordingly, probably smeared across his pillowcase. Yet I still can't imagine him getting upset with me. More likely than not, he'll launder it without making a comment at all. He's never shown himself to be exceptionally confrontational in the slightest.

I turn down the heat on the eggs to take a quick leave in the direction of the main bathroom that is attached to the living area. Most of the time, it strikes me as odd that he bought a two bedroom and two bathroom apartment for just himself, but usually I just attribute it to his typical, though casual, displays of opulence.

A glance in the mirror tells me that my concerns were partially correct. Throughout the night, my makeup had stayed relatively in tact. Though, the mascara is slightly spilling from my eyes. I turn on the faucet and cup water in my hands before I start to splash it against my face and I glance around looking for something that I can use to quickly wipe all of the makeup off. After turning up empty handed, I end up settling with wadding up some toilet paper and doing the best that I can to get all of the excess makeup off.

Disposing of the toilet paper, I hurry back in the direction of the kitchen; not wanting for the eggs to burn as a result of my negligence. Fortunately, nothing of the sort had happened in my time away. Stirring them around, I pull the toast out of the toaster and set it on a plate. With this, all of my attention is directed to the eggs—that being the only part of the meal that hasn't been finished.

A quiet seems to settle over the apartment then. Prior, I had been juggling my attention between a series of tasks: fruit salad, toast, and eggs. Now, I am hyper aware of the silence settling over the kitchen. In the corner of the room, I notice a stereo. It appears to be one that can be connected via Bluetooth. I fumble around looking for my phone, to connect it to. Quickly I seem to realize that I had left my phone in the bedroom where I had slept.

Plating the eggs, I turn to head back in the direction of the bedroom to both wake up Harry both so that we can eat and so that I can grab my phone to play some music. In the process, I'm struck with a feeling of domesticity. Perhaps if I continue down this path, this is what is in store for me: lazy mornings with breakfast and music after late nights. Shamelessly, I can admit to be rather attracted by the idea. There's a reason that the word bliss is so frequently attached with domestic. (Of course, I mentally amend, domesticity gets quite tiring should I be the only one to engage with it.)