Home > Uncategorized > The Profundity of Breakfast on a Cold, Soft, Early Morning

The Profundity of Breakfast on a Cold, Soft, Early Morning

What impresses him most is the softness of her hair. He knows it is soft even though he has never touched it and, likely, never will.

He can see that it is soft.

He understands the flexibility and mutability of the senses. The way some people can, purportedly, hear or smell the color yellow, for example.

The young woman with the soft hair laughs at something her friend has said. He wishes he could touch her laughter. Hold her laughter in his hands and fondle it. Put her laughter in his mouth and taste it. Chewable laughter. Swallowable laughter. Digestible laughter. Would poop laughter be reduced to a series of giggles?

On this sunny but raw December morning he could smell the cold the moment he opened his door.

He does not doubt that there are kind monsters, who love despite their innate nature, and evil saints whose generosity and good deeds serve primarily their own purposes.

The world is not as we believe, as we have been told and taught by parents and teachers wielding false authority. There is more space than substance. Time, despite signs of aging and degradation, is an illusion. Whatever time is, it travels in many directions and at different speeds. This is something he has learned to believe, from experience.

His thoughts fell heavy on the sidewalk, to be trod upon or kicked aside by those who will follow, as he walked the short block for his breakfast with coffee where he found the young woman with hair that smells and sounds soft.

The things that we think will keep us alive will kill us and voice versa. The cheeseburger. The alcohol. Sex. Adventure. Curiosity. Love. Security. Flip them, turn them over, roll them around. Front is back. Top is bottom. To embrace or deny our deepest desires has exactly the same end result but with different milestones along the way.

She. The other one whose hair is also soft is still asleep in the bed and does not know of or may not agree with any of these notions. He would have liked to crawl into her dreams during the night were the hatch not battened. Maybe he was already there. A greater or lesser version of himself that he might never encounter or find suitable if he did.

She sleeps and cannot hear the soft voices of the eggs and bacon sitting before him. Perhaps she has already risen and found his note which contains both an offer and an apology. She may be thinking of the  night before and the night before that and on and on to the beginning depending on her memory and imagination and her ability not to conflate the two.

Each decision establishes the next one and erases possible others. He could finish his breakfast, walk out the door, head down the street in the opposite directions never to return to this place or to her but the sheer weight of previous decisions makes that almost impossible.

The young woman in the cafe with the howling soft hair is aware. He knows she is aware even before she brushes a soft lock from her forehead, from her soft, brown eyes. She talks and looks at her friend but he knows she is watching. When he sips his coffee, she sips hers. An unconscious mimic. She may or may not be interested in him but he knows she is aware and curious. She tries to read the title of the book he had set aside when his meal arrived.

The door opens. She enters. Sleep remains in her eyes. She always looks and smells and sounds and feels and tastes soft when she has first awakened. She smiles and takes a seat beside him, turns to him and kisses him on the cheek. She takes a piece of his bacon off the plate and puts it in her mouth.

He smiles and sips his coffee.

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