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A woman's voice fills the room. Then a piano melody.
It's familiar. The artist was popular way back when.
"Christina Perri." He moves to the table. "She played this album to win one of her song-offs with Molly."
"Did you pick the winner?"
"No. They didn't give a fuck what I thought."
"So, what, they fairly judged each other?" I sit next to him.
"So they said." He picks up his spoon. "Thanks, Imogen. Really."
"It's nothing."
"Fixing me breakfast at my place. It's something."
My cheeks flush. "You're welcome."
He studies a scoop of oatmeal with suspicion, shrugshere goes nothing, and brings the spoon to his mouth.
I watch his expression change. Hesitation. Surprise. Satisfaction.
"Not as bad as I expected."
"You like it," I say.
"I like it." He takes another bite. "I don't love it, but I like it."
"That's how it starts."
"Oh?"
"Have you ever noticed? Nobody just likes oatmeal. They make it the butt of every joke or they love it."
"I'm surprised you like it."
"Too plain?"
He nods.
"But that's why I love it. I can add whatever I want. It's a perfect base, like white rice."
"Anything? Even eggs? Or cheese?"
"Savory oatmeal," I say. "Some people are into it."
He looks at his bowl. "No fucking way."
"I prefer sweet, but I've tried it."
"With what?"
"Green onions, eggs, sesame seeds. It works better than you'd think."
He shakes his headdisturbing.
"It's like rice or bread. Nobody thinks it's weird we put jelly on toast and eat roast beef sandwiches."
