Peter caresses the white fluff in his head. He opens the cupboard. Pots, pans and a lonely spatula. He grabs two pans and the spatula falls. He glances through the door, towards the room. Silence. He picks up the spatula and lights up two stoves. He opens the fridge and digs out four sausages, butter and two eggs. He warms up the butter and fries the sausages. He looks for a small alimimum pepper grinder. He twists it and shakes it on the sausages. He puts them in two plates, breaks the eggs against the pan and cooks them. Some egg-white falls in his stomach, winding down among curly hair and dry semen. Peter smiles. It has been years since his last great fuck. He scractches his balls. The eggs are getting stuck. He uses the spatula. He takes out some orange juice from the fridge and pours two glasses. On a breakfast tray he places both plates, two forks, two knifes and the glasses. He leaves the kitchen, walks through the corridor surrounded by the smell he loves, reaches the door and opens it.