Blogopera #5 - There's Got to Be a Morning After

This is #5 in a fictional series, to read in succession, begin with #1



.........continued from last time






Blogopera #5/There's Got to Be a Morning After
My cell phone alarm rings from the other room, I’ve forgotten to shut it off. I relish for a moment that it is Saturday and I don’t have to work. I open my eyes and remembering last night, look next to me. Dylan is awake, gazing in my direction.

“How long have you been awake?” I ask, feeling slightly self-conscious with this near stranger in my bed awake while I still slept.
“About a half an hour.”
I stretch my limbs out trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
“I was enjoying watching you sleep.” he replied.
“Why,” I asked,” because it’s one of the few times my mouth’s not moving?”
“No”, he laughed, “have you heard that before?”
“No comment.”
“I was just enjoying a few minutes appreciating you without feeling like I’m staring.”
“But you were staring.” I say.
“Well,” he responded, ”it’s not really staring if someone’s not awake to feel stared at.”
“What is it then?”
“I told you,” he paused, “it’s appreciating.”
“Well, stop appreciating me, it’s weirding me out.” I laughed and playfully pushed his face in the other direction.

“Do you want some coffee?” I ask.
“No, I don’t touch the stuff.” he answered.
“Huh?” The coffee guy doesn’t drink coffee?
“I’m just kidding, I’d love some.”
“You hungry?” I ask, my own stomach begging for some nourishment after last night’s workout.
“Starving.”
“I’ll make us some breakfast,” I say and get up from the bed, pulling on my robe.
“Can I help?” he asked as he grabbed his pants from the floor and slid them on.
“Sure.”

In the kitchen, I delegate the coffee making to him. “Why don’t you make the coffee, you are after all, the expert.”
“I can do that, where is it”
“The coffee pot is in the corner,” I reply, “and the coffee and filters in the cabinet above your head,” I point above where he is standing.

He opens the cupboard door to find my crushed and rumpled up, misshapen filters probably gathering dust now that they’ve permanently eluded their protective plastic bag and my can of ‘club special’ store brand coffee. I am embarrassed by my low rent choice of coffee. I try to explain.

“It’s not that I like that coffee, it’s just more of the, you know, emergency coffee, the coffee I make when I don’t have time to go to the cafĂ© or when I need to brew some for a dessert recipe or company’s over.”
“You serve this to company?” he asks eyebrows raised.
“I have.” I say cautiously like I may be further incriminating myself. Maybe I should have chosen my words more carefully. Take the ‘I do not recall ever having served that coffee to others’ line of response that so many politicians have used to successfully shirk responsibility.
“I won’t judge,” he says shaking his head to imply there is definitely judging going on.
“Thank you.”

I work on the omelette throwing two English muffins into the toaster.
“Butter, jam, peanut butter?” I inquire of him.
“Yes please.”
“Which one?” I ask.
“All of the above.”
“Really?”
“Sounds delicious,” he says.
“Okay, it’s your muffin”

I carry our plates to the small breakfast table overlooking the courtyard I share with the other three apartments in the fourplex. He follows behind me coffee, napkins and forks in tow.

“So, are you busy today?” he asks casually as he shoves an entire peanut butter, jelly and butter slathered English muffin half in his mouth.
“Nothing immediately pressing,” I answer.
He puts his hand up to pause, working the last of the muffin down. “Could I persuade you to maybe spend the day with me?” he asks.
“I might be persuaded,” I say cautiously. “What did you have in mind?”

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