The wine crept through my
veins. I sat at the kitchen table, glass-in-hand, watching him. Bruno Mars
serenaded us. I wiggled my toes, wondering about our future.
"Like this?" He
asked, smiling at me. He pointed to my egg.
"Yes," I said,
admiring him. His smile radiated an essence that I had only experienced a
handful of times. A consciousness easily comparable to the few most
important sensations in my life; the light in my niece’s eyes when she
recognizes my voice, or the smell of Katie’s Velvet Sugar perfume.
He finished cooking the
bacon, cursed a bit, and turned the oven off. I squirmed in my seat,
writhing with contentment. A perfect man, cooking the perfect meal. I
felt like a princess. With him, I always felt like a princess.
As he drowned his eggs in
hot sauce, interestingly enough, I imagined spending the rest of my life with
him. The scenarios that ran through my mind didn’t scare me - they were
comforting.
I saw a princess, becoming
a queen. Thick, brown hair, turning grey. Hospital bills, late nights,
dancing in the kitchen, an Aussie, two kids, and a different bouquet of flowers
each year.
I saw everything I’ve ever
wanted.
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