On Sunday mornings, I want to wake up to the smell of bacon sizzling over the Teflon pan. Its fragrance wakes me up and as I follow the trail of its scent, it leads me to you in your morning hair, groggy eyes, plain white shirt, and your favourite apron tied around your waist. I want to eat breakfast with you as if time isn’t running, as if the world is in a standstill and the only thing that matters is you, your sloppily fried bacon that I will eat anyway, and my cup of coffee that creates a mirage through your side of the table.
I want to sit next to you and read the morning paper, talk about what’s on the news but most likely what’s not on the news because we both like to believe that what they don’t tell is what we need to know. We turn the pages over until we reach the crossword puzzle; you tell me that anagram goes downwards and Van Gogh goes across as I slowly write every letter, careful not to tick the empty the boxes that we are yet to fill.
I want to feel the warmth of your hands on my waist as I clean the dishes with your humming matching every clink-clonk of the delicate and overpriced mugs we got from a theme park abroad. Your hum fades into a song and you sing it to my ears as your chin rests on my neck, I feel your cheeks grazing over mine and I whisper those three words I have wanted to say since the beginning of time.
But, hey, these are the few things that I want and I hope you want them too, at least before the bacon’s burnt or your favourite apron is all worn out and *****. I hope this is also what you want before we finish breakfast, before I finish my coffee, before we figure out all the right words in the puzzle. I hope this doesn’t die until our mugs have dried, until you finish the song your singing, until your cheeks become wrinkly, until I hear you say those three words I’ve been waiting for all this time.