The first day.
I think it's a Kanye West song that wakes me up for my appointment with God. I slept through the first alarm; I was supposed to go running first.
In sweat shorts and a thrift store pullover I hobble down the stairs and into the kitchen, my ankles cracking with my first movements of the morning.
"Sorry" I mumble as I turn the on the light that hangs over the kitchen table. I'm 5 minutes late and if this were a business meeting I'd be in trouble, but it's not. He doesn't mention my arrival or attire, he just waits.
I decide that today is as good a day as any to make potatoes and eggs for breakfast -- what with a sous chef and all.
As I'm chopping I'm talking, telling him about myself. It's like what a first date might be like when you've known the person your whole life. It's kind of charming in the way that I know he already knows literally everything about me, but I'm telling him anyway. I want him to know that I want him to know.
Eventually I slow down, the potatoes are sitting in a crackling pool of oil in the confines of a skillet pan. There's nothing for me to do but to sit and wait. And in a moment of honesty, I tell him I'm afraid of this whole project -- what if he doesn't show up to these dates? What if I get left abandoned, the very thing I'm most afraid of?
In my mind I see us sitting across from each other at a posh restaurant. We're wearing stellar outfits. I think I have makeup on my face. He leans over to me and whispers in a tone of equal parts confident and delicate.
"I don't disappoint."
My eyelids pop open. I look around the room to see if anyone else is a witness to the electricity. But no, that moment was meant for one; I'm the only one seated across the table from him.
Struck with awe and a bit of sheepishness, I pour the egg over the potatoes and finish the dish.
What will this mean for me?
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