I Will Fork You: A Breakfast Tragedy in Three Courses
It was 7:14 a.m. on a Tuesday that had the audacity to behave like a Monday. Jack rolled out of bed wearing one sock, a scarf, and nothing else. It was a statement, not a wardrobe. In the kitchen, Diane was already orchestrating breakfast like a caffeinated French general, wielding a spatula in one hand and a raw egg in the other hand.
“Morning, love,” Jack croaked, his hair standing like a punk rocker who lost a bet.
Diane didn’t look up. “I swear to God, Jack, if you put ketchup on those eggs again, I’m calling The Hague.”
“But it’s a vegetable,” Jack replied, pouring black coffee into a wine glass because all the mugs were currently supporting succulents.
The table was a masterpiece of confusion. One gluten-free croissant, half a Pop-Tart, bacon sculpted into the shape of a weeping angel, and a mysterious green smoothie that smelled. Diane, wearing a silk robe and combat boots, was slicing a grapefruit as if it had personally insulted her family.
Jack reached for the smoothie.
“Touch that and I will taser you with my words,” Diane warned, her eyes glinting with just a whisper of caffeine-induced mania.
“Fair,” he said, opting instead for the croissant, which promptly exploded into a fine, buttery dust.
Just then, the toaster launched two slices of burnt bread with the force of a NASA trial run. One landed on the cat. They did not own a cat.
“Breakfast is served,” Diane announced triumphantly, placing a single hard-boiled egg on a plate like it was the Hope Diamond. Jack blinked.
“I was hoping for pancakes.”
“And I was hoping to marry someone who flosses. We all make compromises.”
He raised his wine glass of coffee. “To domestic bliss.”
She raised her fork like a trident. “And the slow descent into madness.”
And so they ate, laughed, and argued over who left the fridge open while a mysterious pigeon watched them from the windowsill, judging everything.