Breakfast
He smokes, I cook—or as least that's the usual order of things at 8:00 a.m. daily. Sometimes Sanzo would sleep in, grumbling about the sun being too cheerful or the rain being too cold. Most of the time I would get up anyway on those days. I liked to keep a regular schedule. The high priest did so more out of the fact that he liked quiet companionship in the morning than actually seeking regularity. Breakfast was usually plain white rice and green tea, monk food. Sanzo would have his cigarette and skim the newspaper while he waited for me to serve the humble portions, having not bothered to kick the habit since those days, even though life was hardly stressful anymore. As for the drinking, he didn't feel the need much any longer, except occasionally on rainy nights.
Sanzo was a Buddhist in its truest meaning now, not a useless, scripture tossing monk or the heretical monster he used to be. In fact, you might not distinguish him from any ordinary person except for the unobtrusive vermilion bindi permanently hiding behind the curtain of gold-blond hair that reached just past his eyebrows. However, his understanding had gone way beyond any mortal could ever hope to achieve: this man had been to the doorway of heaven and back and to the ends of the earth. Outwardly, Sanzo still looked like the old Sanzo, acted like the old Sanzo (even if it was a far more mellow version), but sixteen years on the road can change a soul in a way like none other.
As for myself, I can't tell that I've changed even in the slightest, except for a few extra wrinkles and a gray hair I discovered in the mirror yesterday. Having nowhere in particular to go, I moved in to the monastery with Sanzo, but swore off becoming a brother for reasons I'm not entirely sure of. I just didn't think it was appropriate for me. Instead, I bought myself a decent kitchen set, acquired a new apron, settled in the quaint kitchen, and never left. Sanzo once said I reminded him of a housewife, doing the same domestic things day after day, but I had known him long enough to understand that's not what he really meant, but rather a very subtle joke. Breakfast was the least elaborate meal I made every day, but by far my favorite. Simplicity has done a great deal for me, to calm my heart and remind me of what's really important. This life is important, waking up the ritual sounds of the monks chanting, keeping up only with the local news, and making plain white rice for Sanzo and I every day.
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Finished? Maybe, maybe not. 83? Who knows. Yes, the 53 poster girl is writing Hakkai and Sanzo. Don't kill me—I'm just experimenting.
I used some references from the real Xiyouji story, if you caught them. The most obvious is the bit about "sixteen years on the road". The rest…well…go read the books. It's more conceptual than concrete facts from the story.