I like the smell of your cigarette burnt in the morning when the sun shines through the hideously big window panes of my room while everything else fades out. I would have hated the smell of it burning forever, but since the day I met you the smell have unarguably become a part of everyday life I, surprisingly, rather enjoy. Thanks to you, you bad-ass smoker.
We have woken up since 5 but neither one of us said a word to each other. I opened my eyes with the delicate sound of my vinyl record playing through the gramophone I inherited from my late grand father. From the side of my father, since the one from my mother’s side is still living in a village about 5 hours by plane from here. Sometimes I pay a visit there just for the sake of looking at a wide amount of corn field. You know, good old nostalgia has always been a friend of mine. Anyway, you put the vinyl already before I woke up, so you must have been up earlier than I was. You always have this difficulty sleeping and I assumed you haven’t had any decent sleep last night. Poor thing. I could have come across to where you were sitting and hug you, but I didn’t. I just stayed still in my bed, watching you listening to the record. Silently, sleepily. It was My Fair Lady 1956, its first gig on Broadway. I didn’t know you have a thing for musicals. But, oh well.
I turn down the book I have been reading for the last 30 minutes and walk my way to the kitchen counter. Time to make us some breakfast. You still sit there on the window pane, watching people running about the streets below in such a nice, nice morning. Maybe you wonder what they are chasing after so eagerly, so blatantly. And yet here we are, lingering around my studio apartment, taking a frivolous look from the sidewalk of what seems to be a normal life. Suddenly, you sigh and take an even deeper amount of cigarette in your mouth. I open the refrigerator, taking out some eggs and milk. What to make, what to make? You have always been a big fan of fried egg, sunny side-up. So you’ll have two of that and I’m going to make myself an omelette. Pretty fair, I guess. I’ll make some toasts and sausages, too, with a little spice here and there. In the process, you had joined me in the kitchen to make us some coffee with the cigarette dangling between your lips. Goodness, you don’t know how fond I am to your coffee. You make such excellent decaf with my coffee-maker. Only God knows how you did that. I haven’t been able to make good use of that machine.
It doesn’t take that long before the meal is set. We eat on the bed, like some mild, rebellious teenagers showing off their angers to the parents. Finally, you get rid of that smoky thing from your mouth and take a sip of coffee. I stare at you for no reason, just simply because you look beautiful in the morning light. You see me see you. A few seconds of awkwardness before we both suddenly crack up. Oh, what laughs we have for a good 10 minutes. After that we both rub the hint of tears in the corner of our eyes. We can’t contain this any longer.
“What’s with the silence this morning, Cate? I thought you were mad at me or something.”
“No, silly, I wasn’t mad at you. I don’t know. I thought it was a game you made up. Like, the first one to break it lose or something.”
“Nah. I’m not much for games.”
“But it’s nice, huh? I like to share silence with you. That’s why I didn’t say anything for the past 3 hours or so.”
” . . . . . . . ”
“You’re weird, Jules.”
The two of us smile indulgently. I can see my reflection in your hazel eyes. It makes me feel secure. When we both finish eating, you help me cleaning up the dishes and I make up the bed. Then I join you sitting on the window panes. You take my hand, playing with it, and ask me, “Shall we go for a walk? I might as well pick up a flower from someone else’s garden for you”. Your smile is so delicate, I’m afraid I will break it. I nod and we look at the view below once again before you escort me through the door, gentleman-like.