Breakfasting

Anne didn't like breakfast. She didn't like being awake. It was all...unnecessary and tiresome.

Eric's breakfast spread was elaborate and beautifully laid out. There were a variety of juices in a variety of cups in a variety of colors. Fruit was mixed in a bowl. Muffins and breads of myriad flavors were sliced in halves and plated. Two forks. Two knives.

Anne slid the rice paper door to one side and surveyed the damage from a distance; Eric was still fumbling with the coffee in the kitchen. She waited for her stomach to turn at the sweetness of his gesture, but shockingly, all her organs remained intact and she didn't feel as ill as she often did when something nice was done for her.

"Sit down!" he urged as he perched cross-legged on a chair. He was smallish. He reminded her of someone else.

She curled her legginged legs underneath her on the futon opposite. The neck of her sweater gaped at her shoulder as she looked at the floor. Sunlight reflected off the roof of an East Harlem church and dappled her hair and her neck and that bare shoulder.

"You are unbelievably beautiful."

When could she pursue her escape?

She closed her eyes in profound sadness and let him move to her side. She let him hold her face in his hands and tell her again and again that she was beautiful.

"Any man who was lucky enough to get to run his fingers through your hair would return home the next day considering that the greatest conquest he has ever made."

Her insides grimaced and her eyes opened upon an unnecessary line.

Anne sighed at the incongruity and again packed up the suitcase of her particular mind, careful to click the lock securely back into place.