She is leaning against the door frame as her eyes scan the room. Postcards on the walls, a painting of a lighthouse on an ocean shore. No evidence of the people in his life. He is sitting at the kitchen table, skimming the morning paper, a cup of coffee in his hands. His face looks scruffy, he hasn’t shaved, his eyes alert, a playful smile turning into a frown at the corner of his mouth. It is strange for her to see him so early in the morning. His kitchen is organized like so many things in his life. Sandy colors, blueish tones – it’s like taking a trip to the sea up north. He can’t hide his origin.

“Breakfast?” He looks up from his paper and points to a pan of scrambled eggs. She nods, although it’s too early for her to take a bite. For him she doesn’t mind getting up at 6 a.m. He smiles, sees the lines around her eyes and hands his lover his cup of coffee. “Good morning, baby.”

She stifles a yawn, it tells him enough. He didn’t mean to wake her up. She nods her head again, reluctant to tell him that his sheets were cold and empty, that she missed his presence and his touch. Like him, she doesn’t talk much in the morning but welcomes his embrace. He doesn’t mind, enjoys his paper and her head leaning against his chest. It’s 6:30 when he gets up to leave.

“Go back to bed,” he laughs and locks his coffee-soaked lips with hers, sleepy and soft. She closes her eyes and makes him stay five minutes longer, her body pressed against his, her arms flung around his neck. 6:35, he has to go, his voice is low, he almost whispers. Another kiss, his arms still tugged around her waist, another minute and off he goes, leaving that taste in her mouth for more of him.


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