What is Love?

My Morning Routine

I wake up in bed and she's lying next to me pretending to sleep. I know exactly what she's waiting for but I'm not ready; I'm still in the mood to lounge around in bed and contemplate life. I turn, stretch and finally, I look over at her and...

I get up and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth and debate whether or not I want to take a shower. I weigh my options while I move carefully in the bathroom. I know that she can hear my every move so I'm deliberate and conscience of the noise I make. It's not like walking on egg shells; which is a phrase that has always had the negative connotation of fear. I'm not afraid of crushing the egg shells in the bathroom, but since I know she can hear me, I simply chose not to. It's a hundred percent, completely my own choice...

I decide not to take a shower. I've always been more of a night-time shower taker anyways, and plus I know she prefers morning showers and I hate having to take showers after someone else. I don't know if she feels the same about secondhand showers, though; I'll have to ask her once she wakes up. I add it to the mental list of questions I need to ask her as I walk around the kitchen, cleaning debris from the night before. I turn the coffee maker on, the stove on, and I grab the carton of eggs from the fridge. It's getting pretty low, we're gonna have to buy some more the next time I go buy groceries. I grab the bread from the pantry and put two slices in the toaster. By now, the skillet that's always on the stove is hot enough so I pour some olive oil on it, crack two eggs, add my seasonings and mix them in the skillet. I check on the toast, which still needs more time, and then I go back to the fridge to get the packs of sliced turkey and Swiss cheese. I've made this exact same breakfast sandwich for myself a thousand times before; it's my go-to. It's my---

I hear the shower running upstairs and I start wondering how she likes her eggs. I add that to the list of questions I need to ask her, while I carefully fold my omelet. I flip it, add a slice of cheese and then cover it so it melts evenly. The toaster dings and my two slices are browned just the way I like them... I wonder how she prefers her toast. I put the slices of bread on a plate, and I slide the steaming, fresh omelet onto one of the slices. It's nearly complete; the last step is to gently sear two slices of turkey on the still-warm skillet. I usually turn off the stove and use the remaining heat to do this, but I decide to keep it on because I know that I'm going to have to make her a breakfast sandwich once she's done getting ready. I place two gently seared slices of turkey on the steaming, cheesy omelet and I top it with the other slice of toast. I pour myself a mug of coffee and I sweeten it with a bit of honey, and nothing else. I wonder how she...

I sit at the dining table staring at my freshly-made, egg, turkey and Swiss cheese breakfast sandwich and my mug of honey-sweetened, black coffee, and I start wondering if she'll like it. This is the same sandwich I've made for myself a thousand times before. I've picked the ingredients, perfected my cooking methods and I've even timed the toaster so that it dings just as the cheese is done melting over the omelet. This is my breakfast sandwich, prepared the way I like; prepared the way I've always prepared it. I've put so much time and energy into this sandwich. What if she hates it? What if she prefers ham, or some other cheese? What if she doesn't even like breakfast sandwiches? What if she doesn't even like me? What if---

"Good morning!" She says as she suddenly appears, stepping in to the light of the dining room.

I see her and all my fears melt away. I become an optimist every time I see her because she fills me with a different kind of fear. All the little battles, the wins, the losses, the never ending string of trial and error; all of it becomes inconsequential when she looks at me. Win or lose, she's the reason I even try. She eyes the sandwich and asks,

"Can I have that? I'm starving."

"Yeah, of course, I just made it. Here, the coffee is fresh, too."

She takes a bite and says,

"Mmm! It's good, but... a bit cold."

Damn, I'm going to have to factor in her shower time from now on.

The End