Struggling with the lid on the coffee jar - Amused
Breakfast at my place. Our place. It's been a while now, I don't remember him not staying and I don't remember a morning passing without him struggling with the lid on the jar of coffee.
It was all part of the new me, the matching kitchen set. He never forgave me but it gives me something to do.
So I stand here, leaning against the door frame, exactly the same place as yesterday and the day before, I'm beginning to think the grain of the wood has been imprinted on my arm.
It's the same morning routine, the alarm goes off, he leans over me to switch it off, he kisses my temple lightly so not to wake me, I'm usually awake anyway but I keep up the pretence, he'll get up, pad into the bathroom and 5 minutes later re-emerge and saunter through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. When I hear that awful whistling I'll force myself to get out of bed and I'll stand here and watch him wrestle with the jar that contains my caffeine fix.
He doesn't notice I'm watching him.
I watch how he mumbles to himself, how frown lines appear on his forehead as he becomes more and more aggravated with the lid. Then I'll walk up to him.
I'll stand behind him and rest my head on his shoulder, he'll turn around and kiss me good morning - that's the best bit. Momentarily the frown lines will disappear and we'll stay watching each other for a moment. I'll make some snide remark about him not being able to open the jar. He'll give me the look, the one where he raises his eyebrows yet squints just a little but he passes me the jar anyway. I'll take the jar and with a quick flick of the wrist the lid and the jar will be two separate items. He'll tut, complain and comment on me needing a new jar. Maybe one day I'll take his advice but until then he'll just have to live with the kiss of commiseration.
Breakfast at my place. Our place. It's been a while now, I don't remember him not staying and I don't remember a morning passing without him struggling with the lid on the jar of coffee.
It was all part of the new me, the matching kitchen set. He never forgave me but it gives me something to do.
So I stand here, leaning against the door frame, exactly the same place as yesterday and the day before, I'm beginning to think the grain of the wood has been imprinted on my arm.
It's the same morning routine, the alarm goes off, he leans over me to switch it off, he kisses my temple lightly so not to wake me, I'm usually awake anyway but I keep up the pretence, he'll get up, pad into the bathroom and 5 minutes later re-emerge and saunter through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. When I hear that awful whistling I'll force myself to get out of bed and I'll stand here and watch him wrestle with the jar that contains my caffeine fix.
He doesn't notice I'm watching him.
I watch how he mumbles to himself, how frown lines appear on his forehead as he becomes more and more aggravated with the lid. Then I'll walk up to him.
I'll stand behind him and rest my head on his shoulder, he'll turn around and kiss me good morning - that's the best bit. Momentarily the frown lines will disappear and we'll stay watching each other for a moment. I'll make some snide remark about him not being able to open the jar. He'll give me the look, the one where he raises his eyebrows yet squints just a little but he passes me the jar anyway. I'll take the jar and with a quick flick of the wrist the lid and the jar will be two separate items. He'll tut, complain and comment on me needing a new jar. Maybe one day I'll take his advice but until then he'll just have to live with the kiss of commiseration.