Breakfast

The alarm gives out a continuous, annoying ring – like that of a set of church bells come mass time. She squirms in her bed, reaches out her arm, stretches it across and over his body curled up like that of a little boy. He lets out a soft moan and straightens his body, not letting go of the pillow his arms are wrapped around in. She manages to hit the stop button on the alarm clock, almost knocking off their framed wedding photo.

Six a.m. She strokes his back. “Honey, it’s six.” He grunts and moans and goes back to sleeping soundly. She waits for a few moments, and slowly climbs out of bed.

She walks quietly to the kitchen with light footsteps. She wouldn’t want to wake him up. He doesn’t like it when he’s woken up too early – the time of which changes every day. A few steps later, she’s opening the fridge, checking what she can prepare for him today. She vaguely remembers him telling her of an early business meeting he has for the day. Still, meeting or none, she takes two eggs off the rack and a pack of sweetened ham. He needs to have his breakfast.

Frying takes a few good minutes, it shouldn’t take longer. He doesn’t like waiting for his food to be cooked. It has to be ready when he’s up. He doesn’t like waiting.

She listens to the little sizzling sounds on the pan as she sets the table. Two plates, two pairs of knives and forks and two tall glasses. He was never the coffee type, so he’d have a tall glass of orange juice instead. She shouldn’t forget. He gets upset when she does.

Just as she was transferring the newly-cooked slices of ham on a ceramic plate, heavy footsteps arrive. “Honey! Time for breakfast!” He sluggishly gets to the table, putting down his laptop. She can’t see the screen, but he’s typing away. Probably an overdue email, she thinks to herself.

“I have a breakfast meeting today. Didn’t I tell you yesterday?” She can’t quite remember when he told her – when he got home? At dinner? Just before she turned out the lights? Or how he said it – angry? A matter-of-factly?

“Oh.” That was all she could say.

Then the phone rang. She walks quickly to the phone.


Hello?
Hi Anne.
Who is this?
Has your husband left?
No, we’re not on the 53rd.


He has a puzzling look on his face. Credit card, she mouthed, hand on the receiver.


I miss you. I’ll come by when he’s gone.
Yes, that’s the street that you’re looking for.

She twirls the telephone cord playfully. He’s typing heavily.

I can’t wait to be with you.
Neither can I. I don’t understand why you have our number in your list.
Alright then. I love you.
Thank you for deleting it. You take care too. I hope you find what you’re looking for.


Then he hung up.

“Are they offering a new card?” He peers from the laptop screen and takes a sip. “Yes, some new company. They were calling for another person in the street next to ours.” He looks back to the laptop screen and types faster and harder.

She takes her fork and plays with the now cold slices of ham.