Every morning I wake to the warming sky. Your white walls still holding the deep blue of night. I marvel at the pink blossoms outside your windows. I get up. I brush my teeth. I pee. I begin my day. I read about love in your bed, however this particular story makes me like love less. I think about running. I go running. Usually up towards the bridge. I think about delicious coffee and how I will drink it after running.
I make toast with lots of butter. I bought an avocado because I wanted to make avocado toast like you. I also bought tomatoes. But not Jersey tomatoes. I don’t want to be like you and Alice. I eat at your bar stools and look out the window, looking nowhere at all. I feel least lonely in the morning. Perhaps, not lonely at all. I decide to shower.
I walk barefoot and damp wrapped only in a towel along your wood floors. Pausing as I pass your closet, I admire the shirts hung neatly, but not perfectly. I touch them. I’m curious about them. This light blue one, the material is fairly coarse but well worn. What does it look like on you? I think this striped one would be my favorite on you.
In another life I’d be wearing your shirt right now. We’d have met at a bar and as things sometimes happen especially on unseasonably warm early May Fridays after a few too many glasses of wine and too easy conversation, one thing has led to another. But in the morning even with the spell of the spring heat broken we linger. We eat breakfast together. You make me toast and eggs and I pick up your shirt off the floor to wear, a brazen move for a stranger, but maybe we’re strangers no more.
In this life, I put on your shirt. I can’t put my finger on the why. Maybe I wonder if we would fit together. I look at myself in your shirt.
I eat my lunch alone.