Updated: Apr 21, 2020
I've been waking up in the morning wondering how I will spend my day, but mainly what I will eat for breakfast. Usually it involves coffee, but lately I have traded it in for black tea. Splash of oat milk. Usually I would squeeze in a little bit of honey, but Sam doesn't have it, so I opt for one packet of sugar in the raw, making sure it dissolves all the way at the bottom of my mug. My coffee, I drink black.
With my coffee -- or tea -- brewing, I begin to make eggs. First, I stare at my drawer in the fridge that Sam cleared out for me. I keep looking, but the items remain the same. Meager. Boring. A few vegetables that I'm managing to eat fast enough, if only because I am not making any income at the moment and can't afford takeout. I've begun to miss restaurants more and more.
Now, my dance. Sometimes to music, sometimes to my own, quiet pitter-patter across the sloping hardwoods, but always to the sound of the doves cooing from their coop through the open window, and the kettle boiling. I'm twisting in the kitchen, pulling out pans, placing slices of bread in the toaster oven, chopping my tomatoes while trying to keep as much juice inside them as possible. (It never works. Their seeds always ooze out all over my plate, waiting for my toast to be done to sop them up.) I move from the stove to the counter to the table and back, relishing in how I weirdly feel like a homemaker, and how it's actually nice to take care of myself. If only I could remember to drink the rest of my coffee before it reached room temperature.
When I'm done, and my omelette or poached eggs or haphazard scramble is all gone and sometimes a picture has been taken, I return to my little home, the cabana on Sam's property. Now, I pick up where my wondering left off this morning, when I was first stretching awake and trying to ignore my intense need to pee, so I wouldn't have to make my way to the main house before I was ready.
How will I spend my day?