He Made Breakfast Anyway

I had a speech ready about early trains. He was already at the stove, forty, robe open, silver starting at the temples, moving like a man who had decided I was staying before I had finished lying to myself. I was twenty-seven, hoodie half on, dignity somewhere near last night's glass.

“Sit,” he said. I sat. He plated eggs. He did not ask if I wanted them. He asked if I wanted hot sauce, which is a more intimate question than it sounds.

We ate. Then he took the fork out of my hand and kissed me with breakfast still on his mouth. The hoodie came off. The robe came off. He pulled me into his lap at the table and stroked me until I was leaking on his stomach, then said, “Bedroom. I made breakfast so you would have energy, not an exit.”

He put me on my back and took his time. When he pushed inside I held his shoulders and let the morning be what it was: slow, deep, sunlight making everything honest. I came with his hand on me. He followed, forehead to mine, the eggs getting cold on purpose.

There was no train. There was a second pot of coffee. He said, “Next time skip the speech.” I did.