closer to happiness than i've ever been

breakfast

august 12, 1989

the august sun rises but seldom shines through my window. it's raining again, which is highly unusual for the time of year. i roll over to look up at the off white ceiling, thinking about the fact that mike is in love with me. i dozed off in his arms last night, he told me he loved me a million times over. he was all over me.

i roll onto my side to notice that he's gotten up. the door was cracked, meaning that he was likely downstairs. i pull back the covers, the cold air prickling up my arms. the feeling was rather unpleasant. i notice mikes sweater discarded on the floor among various t-shirts and pairs of jeans. i pull the red sweater over my head, his scent enveloping me. i leave my room and head to the kitchen. the air smells of overcooked food.

"son of a bitch!" i hear mike yelling. "goddamn it, fuck!" jesus christ. i laugh to myself. he's still an idiot.

"are you okay," i say, a smile on my face.

"i- yeah" he says, trying to act like he wasn't just screaming at a slice of french toast. he leans over the counter to look at the instructions, his arm running into the handle of the pan where the food was currently burning.

"are you sure?" i ask playfully. i watch him as he steps over to the sink fills a vase with water.

"uh- yeah- i think i got this under contr-" he turns to me and stops in his tracks, he's holding the vase in one hand, the other suspended in midair. "hey" he breathes. i'm not sure what he finds all that breath taking. he moves his free hand awkwardly to the back of his head. "you- um- look really good in my sweater." he is so fucking cute.

"what are you planning on doing with that?" i say, nodding to the vase in his hand.

he looks down at the it and looks back up to me. "i- i thought it would make the french toast not burn? you know?"

"mike, that's not how cooking works" i laugh. "come here." i take the vase from him, setting it on the counter. "that's not how you make french toast, honey, you're doing it all wrong!"the slice of bread was plastered to the pan, blackened and smoking. there were pieces of scrambled eggs that had cooked separately from the toast. there is no way it could be salvaged.

"babe, i'm sorry... i can't fix this." i say, turning the stove off and carrying the pan to the sink. "it really was a sweet gesture, honey." he blushes harder as i kiss him on the cheek. i begin to scrape the mess off the pan with the spatula. he positions himself behind me with his arms on either side of me and his hands on the counter. he peers over my shoulder to watch me scrape at the burnt remains of what was meant to be french toast. "okay, you clearly didn't use butter."

"what? yes i did!" he laughs.

"did you use it to grease the pan or did you put it on the bread?"

"um- on the bread, like you're supposed to?" he scoffs playfully, as if his wrong answer was obvious.

"oh my god, mike," i laugh, my head falling back onto his shoulder. "that's why the egg didn't stay on the bread right!"

"so... you're not supposed to put the butter on the bread before you put the egg on it?"

"what- no! who the hell taught you how to cook?" i'm still giggling at him.

"nobody, my dad thinks it's a woman's job to cook, but i don't think that's gonna work for our... um- relationship." relationship. that sounds nice. there's a silence after he drops that word, but it's a comfortable silence. i decide to ask the question, even if i already know the response. besides, it's not like we aren't completely obsessed with each other.

"so... does that make us boyfriends?" i drop the pan in the sink so i can turn around to meet his eyes. "like, officially?"

"i'd like to think," he says, his angular features donning a smile. he looks at me for a minute before placing his index finger under my chin. he kisses me, placing a hand at my waist. neither of us hear footsteps making their way down the stairs. we briefly pull away when a figure standing in the doorway catches my eye.