You made me breakfast when dawn broke.
I was only a little miffed, mostly
because I wanted to wake
up and see you
beside me
for the first time, but
instead, our dog held
your place,
enjoying the warmth you left
behind.
You said it was a house warming
gift,
to really welcome us
to this new and strange way
of living together
(Scrambled eggs with pepper
and English muffins slathered in
blackberry jam.
So you were paying attention
to my eating habits,
all this time).
We ate in bed, noting we’d
have to make a run
to the store for things we never
needed to buy on
our own:
Shampoo, soap,
plates and silverware,
laundry detergent
and milk.
When nothing but crumbs were left,
we opened up all the windows
in the house, the cross breeze
saving us from the sweltering
summer.
You gave me this look,
and I wiped my lips with
the back of my hand,
suddenly self conscious. You
laughed and said,
“No, it’s nothing like that,”
and I couldn’t help
but join in.