No Title Yet Chosen... Time Travel Related Though

Chapter 1

"Better three hours too soon than a minute late."- William Shakespeare

April 11, 2018. 7:53 A.M.

I press my lips to my wife's head and gently kiss her temple. She makes a breathy noise and rolls to her right on our king-sized, memory foam mattress. It is one of the most beautiful sights in the world for me. Just seeing that she is alive with me another day is all I can ask for. She is my life.

"What time is it?" she asks me; her usually angelic voice mired in the grogginess of the morning.

I hit the upper left button on my digital watch to light it up for a second. "7:54," I whisper gently. I had let her sleep an additional nine minutes this morning without realizing it. "Time to get ready for work, babe."

She groans at the thought of leaving the bed, but I know how she really feels. We are so close to breaking this wide open. It can happen today. I feel it.

I flick the light-switch on and she hisses like a vampire melting in the sun, and pulls the sheets over her eyes. "Give me five more minutes," she pleads.

Sometimes I feel more like her father waking her up for school, than I do her husband. She can be such a brat sometimes. Then again, she would be the smartest brat in the history of the world.

"Babe," I say endearingly though I am starting to get a little annoyed. "We are going to make history any day now." I pull the sheets down exposing her soft blond hair. It reminds me of a lion's mane in the morning. I never would dream of telling her that though. She glares at me, piercing my depths with those jade tinted eyes. I turn to her lips and look longing at them. How did I get so lucky? I quickly look at my watch once I realize she's on to me.

"Then history can wait five minutes," she pouts, and that's the end of it.

I leave the room, make my way down the narrow corridor and into our kitchen. The vibrant yellow of the paint stings my eyes as the sunlight reflects through the open drapes of the window over the sink. I am never letting her pick this colour again, I decide, though deep down I know that she has always gotten her way, and likely always will. I open the fridge slowly, afraid that the pot of leftover soup I casually tossed in last night is resting against the door, just waiting to spring out and give me a chicken noodle shower. It wouldn't be the first time. But there is no splash and I'm lucky. It's the second time I have commended my good fortune in the last two minutes. That must be a record.

I break a few eggs into the pan and begin to meticulously pull out the shells that I always seem to mix with the albumin. I pour myself a glass of orange juice as I scramble my breakfast. Eggs and OJ; the breakfast of champions. No; breakfast of pioneers. Who am I kidding? Breakfast of the lazy physicist who is waiting for his wife to get out of bed.

I hear the shower begin. Good, she's up. I am tempted to join her, but I don't want to delay our commute any longer. I pull out another egg and carefully crack it, afraid to break the yoke. Jessica likes her eggs over-easy and won't eat them any other way. She is quite the picky eater; has been her whole life, or at least for as long I as I have known her. I recall out first date when she sent back her club sandwich twice. The first time for not enough mayo; the second, for too much.

My reminiscent mind goes on high alert as I realize the egg is likely now over-medium. I quickly flip it. She won't be happy.

The water stops running and Jessica emerges wearing two towels. One is draped over her body while the other adorns her head like a monument. I am always impressed at how she can get it to stay like that. She is the master of towel origami.