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Yes ours…
I have lost my mind.
I slip in next to her and I hold her. That’s all I want to do tonight because I know she’s exhausted. I am too and sleep takes me in a few seconds. I notice how I haven’t had any sleepless nights since being with her.
We work and we play hard and she makes me forget.
She keeps me grounded and she keeps me alive.
It’s true. That part is true. She’s keeping me alive by just being with me.
The reality of the situation is I’m like a pressure cooker waiting to explode because there’s no news of what’s happening with the Fontaines, and I know people are watching me.
Watching us.
It’s too quiet.
Far too quiet…
* * *
I wakefrom the sunlight beaming through the window and the aroma of deliciousness in the air.
It smells like Christmas mornings as a child.
Ma’s cooking.She always makes a big breakfast big enough to serve the family we have and anyone else visiting for the holidays.
When I open my eyes properly I see the angel’s left my bed and I pray it’s her down stairs and not Ma. Not that I wouldn’t enjoy seeing Ma. I just want my doll right now. That’s all.
I make my way downstairs and there she is in the kitchen.
Just like the other day she has her hair in a messy bun and she’s wearing my shirt.
No yoga pants. Just my shirt and she’s moving around the kitchen like she knows where everything is.
She moves around like she lives here.
She knows where I keep everything. What goes where and I notice over the last few days and times she’s been here that she has her own set up. Like the seeded bread near the bred bin she likes for breakfast and the nutty peanut butter.
She likes hot chocolate a lot and in the cupboard above the giant sized tub I got her is an assortment of marshmallows and chocolate ‘this and that’ she insists on covering one poor mug of chocolate with before she deems it as suitable to her liking.
She’s made a feast for us, but I want to feast on her.
Look at this beautiful girl in my kitchen. She bobs her head to some old jazz music playing on the radio in the background. It’s old like nineteen forties. I recognize it as something my grandparents listened to.
She turns around and jumps at the sight of me.
“Morning,” she beams. Bringing her hand to her chest she smiles and I see the hint of the bruises around her wrists from last night.
I hope I didn’t hurt her. That was playing and pushing to the edge. She enjoyed it. I just hope I didn’t get carried away, hurt her, and she’s not saying.
She moves over to me when I don’t answer and presses her dainty hands to my bare skin. Her touch wipes my brain clean of everything.
“I made you a French feast to make up for last night,” she adds.
I look at her and I don’t know what to say. I should say thanks but it feels like I should say something more.
“You’ll like it. I have toast and I made your favorite eggs with a dash of siracha peppers to give it a kick, and I did the herby sausages under the grill so it holds the herbs and –”
